


A Time and Place to Grow

by Victorian_Chik



Series: A Time and Place [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Character Study, Corporal Punishment, Family Bonding, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentor Severus Snape, No Slash, Slow Build, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-11-27 23:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18200558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victorian_Chik/pseuds/Victorian_Chik
Summary: After mistakenly flooing himself to Snape's home the summer after Sirius' death, Harry realizes that his potions master can take matters into his own hands, literally. Snape's home - a large, rambling manor with extensive grounds - provides a secluded place for Harry to face his demons and start the slow growth to maturity, but Snape constantly disrupts Harry's multiple schemes and intention to time-travel. Thankful, they have the whole summer to battle wits and words to see whose stubbornness will triumph.





	1. Floo Me Away

**Author's Note:**

> This was a work started back in 2006 and diverges from the fifth book, Order of the Phoenix. Originally, this was posted in ff.net, but I posting it here because I find this layout more visually pleasing and easier to tag. I'm also re-editing and correcting typos as I go. I may end up changing chapters the further I move into the project.
> 
> If you've already read this and commented elsewhere, thanks for all the support over the years.

Harry threw himself back on his bed, smiling with the bed gave a satisfying creak. He could not be ignored forever. He had been here four days now, a total of 96 hours, and they refused to notice him. Well, except when they were shouting orders at him.

He had barely entered the house and set his trunk down when Uncle Vernon told him to put his stuff away and quickly so he could help clean up dinner (that Harry had not eaten).

The next morning Aunt Petunia had woken him up at the crack of dawn to get busy on the garden. June was unseasonably cold, and Harry's hands had felt numb trying to the weed the garden that had been neglected for months. After that, there was breakfast to fix, and then the dusting and washing of windows. The house had to be repainted in the next two days, and Harry had hurried around the house with a ladder, carefully not to get paint on the woodwork or the windows while Aunt Petunia had walked by every so often and criticized.

And today he had started the painting inside. After supper, which they allowed him to eat a bowl of soup, a slice of bread, and half a cup of tea, Aunt Petunia had looked towards the wooden floor in the hall and mentioned something about waxing. Harry had excused himself, saying he was going to bed. His arms ached, and his throat felt a little sore from staying out in the cold too long without a jumper this morning.

But now at barely eight o'clock at night, he was trapped in his bedroom with nothing to do but stare out the window and watch the sunset across the wide sky. He was bored, and angry and hurt about Sirius, and he hated the idea of being trapped here for two months with nothing to distract him but chores and the occasional owl with a letter.

He reached for his school book - the past year's charms textbook with the cover singed for the many times Neville had blown up a particular object the class was supposed to be charming. Though professor Flitwick was a good professor, Harry could not help feeling that Charms was one of the lesser subjects taught at Hogwarts. It had its usefulness to be sure, but levitating objects and casting first year spells seemed weak compared to the edgier subjects like Defense against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration. Those classes had some bite to them; they made him sit up and pay attention because knowledge of their skills could be the very thing that saved his life. He could just imagine meeting Voldemort armed with some dingy charms - watch it, you dark scum lord, see if you like lifting off the ground!

And then there was always potions - Harry looked away from his potion's book with an uneasy feeling. How was he ever going to become an Auror with grades he had received? Nothing less than an O to enter the Auror training, and Snape had given him an E. An E! An A or even a T would have made Harry feel better. One more way that Snape used his power to torture his least favorite student. But an E suggested that Harry was not motivated enough; if he had applied himself a bit more, he might have received the coveted O.

Harry shrugged off his remorse. It was over and done with. If he could not become an Auror, at least he would never have Snape as a teacher again. There was something to say for never having to see the man except at meals and the odd run-in after curfew.

He opened the right pocket of his dress robes. Something he had stolen from Hogwarts when no one else was looking: a small bag full of Floo power. Not much, probably only enough to get him somewhere and back. But he would take his chances. The Dursleys' fireplace was boarded up, but it was still connected to the Floo Network. Two years ago, the Weasleys had tried to come through and fetch him. Harry grinned as he remembered Mr. Weasley shouting at his children to 'go back, go back!', before they all got crammed in the fireplace.

Then Harry's smile disappeared as he remembered that summer. The Quidditch World cup, all excited and ready for adventure. Then the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Then Cedric –

Harry deliberately opened his potions back and stared at the pages, his eyes wide open and intense. If he just kept reading long enough, he would forget. Yes, the Sleeping Draught is a very old and complicated potion. Used to prolong life for those dying of serious illnesses, or to heal those by rest and quiet, the Sleeping draught can be administered three times a day in small quantities, no larger than a teaspoon. It is not recommended for longer than two years.

Two years, Two years? Who would want to sleep for two years? Harry leaned back on his small, lumpy pillow. What if he had been the given the draught at the beginning of the Tri-Wizard Cup and taken it for the next two years. He would be waking up this Fall, and Cedric would be sitting with his friends in Hufflepuff. Harry would be waking up, rubbing his eyes, and Sirius might be sitting by his bed. "Come on, Sleeping Beauty, two years, and you've snored enough to bring the house down. Get up and do something for a change!"

But no, he had been awake for those years, and they were both gone forever.

Unless… Harry snatched up his History of Magic book and flipped through it hastily. What had he done to save Sirius in his third year? Gone back in time three hours. What if he went back in time a month? Or better yet a year and a month? Flip that little hour glass over... let's see – make it 400 days to be safe – times 24, 6 carry the 1... 9600 times? That was a lot of time to turn back. But he could do it. He would find some quiet corner to hide, and start flipping that tiny hourglass over and over, until the morning of the third task. Then he would find some way to explain to everyone what had happened. Of course, the other him might not believe him at first, but he could always knock the younger Harry out and stash him in some corner. He wondered how it might feel to punch himself in the face, and would he feel it later or not?

There was no mention of how to buy time-turners in the History of Magic, Grade 6. Harry reached for a copy of advertisement from Diagon Alley. Hour glasses filled with diamond sand, watches that could predicate the future for the day but were not guaranteed against loss of limb, love, or life; a fake wand that made the clocks turn backwards but did not make time stop, a gold dial that did make time stop, but only for fifteen minute increments, and a pair of watches that you and your sweetheart could where that would tell where the other person was, very reliable for girls with cheating boyfriends.

Harry flung the magazine into a corner. He picked up his last book, a reference to Dark Arts objects and other harmful thing, half of which had been found in the Malfoy's' home at one time or another. Harry flipped to the Ts.

Teeth-sharper – a file that ground one's teeth to points that could pierce through a sword, Tied Nooses – ropes that would straggle anyone once you put the noose around their head – Time-turners…

Harry sat up and brought the book closer to his face.

_Time-turners – originated in the day of Merlin, possible roots reaching back to the third Egyptian dynasty. Able to turn back increments of time by rotation. Only five known and regulated in the Wizarding ward. Under strict supervision. Of the five, the strongest was found a Snapdragon Manor by Thaddeus Snarpley who was arrested for committing crimes against Muggles then using the time-turner to turn back time to escape. When captured, Snarpley hinted at having more time-turners, even ones capable of turning back months or years at a single turn, hidden in Snapdragon Manor, but none were ever found. The next strongest time-turner..._

Harry scanned down the page to the end.

_As of the publishing of this book, the five time-turners are under regulation of the Ministry of magic and only released under supervision and deeds of requirement. To request one, please contact..._

Harry closed the book and stood up. Snapdragon Manor, that was where he was going. He would take his invisibility cloak, his wand, and Floo himself to the Manor. He could search through the house for days until he found the strongest time-turner. If anyone discovered him, he could make a run for it or even pretend to have a nervous breakdown. After this spring, no one expected him to act normal, and now the whole Wizarding world was on his side, ready to support and believe him.

Not a very logical plan, certainly not well thought out, Hermione would stand in horror at his foolhardy, rash...

Harry flung his cape over one arm and took his wand in the other. Then he marched out of the tiny bedroom and downstairs. The Dursleys were sitting on the sofa, watching some inane sitcom that could barely be heard from the laugh track that was roaring as some guy tripped over a chair and fell into a table full of desserts. The Dursleys looked at Harry, mostly annoyed.

"Whatter you doing out here?" Uncle Vernon asked crossly. "You're supposed to be upstairs. If you're too tired to scrub the kitchen floor, then you might as well. Blimey, what are you doing with that hammer?"

Harry held up the hammer he had taken from his room to ply up the floorboards with and wrenched out the front board hammered to the fireplace.

Aunt Petunia leapt to her feet. "You little brat, you'll ruin it. The fireplace doesn't need repair."

"I'm not repairing it," Harry grunted, working on the second board. "I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back."

Petunia looked at her husband, jerking her head towards Harry as if to suggest that he stop their crazy nephew. Vernon took a step forward and then caught sight of the wand sticking out of Harry's back pocket. Turning pale under his normal pasty color, Vernon shook his head. "After all," he whispered to his wife, "if he gets lost, it won't be our fault, and maybe they'll lock him up for good."

Throwing the hammer aside, Harry shook up and whirled to face them. "I heard that," he said, feeling the old familiar rage sweep over, lighting his nerves of fire. "Well, I'm leaving, and good luck when my parents' murderer comes looking for you, and I'm not here to save you. I hate it here, I hate all of you, and I'm never coming back because I'm going to save my godfather."

"The one who died?" Vernon managed to ask.

Harry didn't reply. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it down. Petunia shrieked like a banshee when she saw the green flames.

"Snapdragon Manor!" Harry shouted, and the living room of the Dursleys disappeared. Two thoughts flashed through Harry's mind as he was whisked away. The first was that Dudley had not given looked up from the TV as Harry was destroying the fireplace and yelling about leaving. The second was that he had forgotten to put on his invisibility cloak before he left the Dursleys, and now wherever he landed, he would be seen. Well, that was just fine. He would put it on the moment he landed.

He saw the outline of the room, and then something bright and warm. There was a bloody fire in the fireplace, he was going to catch fire, he was going to burn, where was he?

The fireplace shot Harry out over the fire and onto the stone hearth with an explosion of wind and soot, and he rolled over in a tangle of limbs and cape, barely managing to stop in time from cracking his wand.

The room seemed quiet and still for a moment, and Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position, straightening his glasses. Then everything stopped, time stood still as if he had one of those gadgets from Diagon Alley.

In a tall armchair, not ten feet away, in long black robes and holding a book as thick as Harry's arm, was Snape.

Frozen to the spot, Harry could only gulp and try to remember to breath. Maybe if he stayed very still Snape wouldn't see him. After all, the cape was over Harry's legs, maybe Snape would blink, and Harry could wrap the cape over himself real quickly, and Snape would just think he was having a hallucination from teaching dunderheads for so many years.

Eyes not wavering, Snape looked straight at Harry. "Mr. Potter, how unexpected."

The cold, slow voice made Harry's skin crawl. He had to pick himself up off the floor. This was exactly like the Occlumency lessons where Snape kept knocking him down over and over, and Harry had to pick himself up and present his mind again as if he were some book for Snape to flip through at random.

Snape slammed his own book shut, making Harry jump and snap back to the present. Harry pushed off his cloak and stood up, squaring his shoulder, determined not to be intimidated. This wasn't Hogwarts, there were no points to lose for Gryffindor. "I was trying to get to Snapdragon Manor."

"This is Snapdragon Manor," Snape said in the same cold voice.

"Oh," Harry felt his nerve ebbing away, "well, I thought a Thaddeus Something lived here."

"Thaddeus Snarpley lived here three hundred years ago," Snape placed his book to the small table beside the chair, never taking his eyes off Harry.

"Oh, right, well, I didn't know that."

"Mr. Potter, to catalogue what you don't know would take a lifetime, and I for one would like to spend my years free from such drivel. I suggest you return from where you came from and stop butting into other people's homes and personal lives."

"No," Harry tried to forget why Snape had hated him so much their last Occlumency's lesson, "I can't go home, now."

"Mr. Potter," Snape stood, and Harry stepped back, having forgotten how much taller Snape was. "This is my home, and though you may run wild over Hogwarts, you will not enter this house without my permission. Though you may think it's your right to come and go wherever you please, as your father did –"

"You leave my dad out of this!" Harry yelled. He was not going through Snape's taunting and baiting again, not after what Snape did to Sirius, not after the way Snape had let Sirius go to his death. "I admit he was a prat to you, but I'm not like that. You don't know anything about me."

"I suppose we're at a disadvantage considering that you make it your business to pry into everyone else's."

"I said I was sorry," Harry protested, balling his hands into fists.

"Yes, you're always sorry after you cause catastrophe, but that never stops you from thinking before you act," Snape snarled, showing his sharp teeth. "The daring Boy-Who-Lived, our hero, rushing to save everyone from certain death, taking as his right to disregard rules, arrogant, conceited –"

"I'm not!" Harry nearly stomped his foot in frustration. "If everyone would listen to me and believe me, I wouldn't have to save them! I could follow rules and pay attention in class instead of worrying that I might meet my fate tomorrow and give it all up. Well, I don't care about rules. I don't care about what Dumbledore says. I'm not going back to the Durleys to rot in their tiny room. I'm going to find a time-turner or fate changer, or something to bring them back, and you can't stop me, no one can stop me. You think my father was conceited and headstrong, you haven't seen anything yet, you slimy git!"

Harry reached in his pocket for more Floo powder when a strong hand and grabbed his arm. Harry felt himself whirled around, and then Snape marched him over to the leather sofa.

"I'm not sitting down," Harry growled, trying to squirm away. But Snape had a very strong hand on him and wasn't about to yield an inch.

"No, you're not sitting, I am," Snape sat on the sofa and yanked Harry towards him.

Suddenly, everything was wrong and horrible for Harry felt himself falling forward over Snape's knees, his nose nearly touching the carpet. The man's knees felt hard and strong beneath him, and Harry felt a powerful hand pull his torso tight into Snape.

"What are you doing?" Harry gasped, the blood rushing into his face.

"What I should have done years ago," Snape said, his voice tight and stern. "The day you went looking for a troll in the girls' bathroom instead of telling a teacher or at least an older student, you insufferable brat!"

The first smack landed hard on Harry's bottom. Harry gasped, the pain and shock of his position rendering him powerless to do anything but lie there like a little child. Like a little child over his father's knee getting spanked. Snape was – no, this was not real.

The second blow erased all doubt, and Snape delivered and third and fourth wallop before speaking.

"This is for looking for that blasted stone your first year, for endangering the lives of your little friends, annoying as they are. You could have died in Devil's Snare, or the chess game, or the potion's test, or against that traitor Quirrell."

"Ow! But we didn't! Uh, stop!" Harry yelped. The smacks were coming down harder and moving up and down, though concentrated mainly around his sit spot. His left arm was caught between his side and Snape, but Harry flung back his right arm to try to cover his bottom from the onset of sharp smacks. Snape paused long enough to pin Harry's wrist in the small of his back before retorting,

"No, you scrapped though by mere luck, the likes of which I have never seen," Snape shifted his legs a bit, raising Harry's bottom higher for better aim and leverage. Then with nothing to hinder him—Harry's arms tucked out of the way and his bottom a perfect target—Snape started spanking again. "And the second year, looking for the Slytherin's monster? Risking your life and Mr. Weasley's with that idiot Lockhart? Running around the chamber of secrets with a basilisk? Foolish and stupid."

"You can't do this!" Harry protested. "It's – it's wrong."

"Wrong?" Snape bellowed, landing two smacks right in the same place and making Harry yelp. "It's wrong to discipline an intruder, an unruly student, and a scheming brat? Let me convince you just how wrong you are to argue with me at this moment."

Harry was having trouble keeping quiet. His eyes were burning as was his rear-end, and he didn't think Snape was about to stop any time soon, not with the energy he was putting behind his spanks and the enthusiasm he had for his lecture.

"As for the third year, an escaped killer on the loose, and you run wild not only through the school but to Hogsmeade and the Shrieking Shack."

"But Black was _ow!_ innocent," Harry, to his horror, found himself starting to sniff pitifully. He tried squirming, but Snape continued to land his smacks exactly where he wanted: on the tender spots that Harry hadn't even know were vulnerable.

"You didn't know that, and Peter Pettigrew wasn't! Then you had the audacity, the gall to stun me in the midst of those hoodlums, and then you ran off to chase a werewolf after I risked my life to protect you and those friends, again!"

The spanking was nearly unbearable now; Harry felt like blowtorch was being applied to his bottom, searing it with fire, and Snape was not letting up a bit. But Harry didn't care anymore – somehow it was a relief to be punished for transgressions, to get all his anger and frustration to the top and not to fear yelling at Snape because the man couldn't punish him any worse than he was doing right now.

"As for your fourth year –"

"Ow! No, I didn't put my n-name in the g-goblet," Harry choked out, realizing with dismay that tears were welling up in his eyes.

"No, but you were just as arrogant and careless. Everyone had to help get you to the end, because you wouldn't admit that you had no idea of what you were doing. And as for this past year…”

Harry finally gave in and started crying for real. Tears sprung up unchecked, and he began sobbing. He stopped squirming, stopped fighting, and just lay there, getting spanked like a naughty little boy.

"You threw that lovely temper tantrum in the summer, wouldn't shut up around Umbridge so she kept punishing you, and you ran off to the ministry without thinking about the consequences of your actions."

Harry couldn't stop crying; he knew that Snape would bring up Sirius, and Harry would crack into a thousand pieces. He would break, they might as well send him to St. Mungo's right now for all the good he would be. It was his fault that Sirius had died – he deserved every bit of this punishment.

"And as for snooping around my office," Snape pulled his hand back as far as it would go, "you will never _SMACK_ ever _SMACK_ snoop _SMACK_ around my personal _SMACK_ memories _SMACK_ or my office _SMACK_ again!"

"Yes, I mean no!" Harry bawled, praying it was almost all over. "I won't snoop, and I'll obey the rules – all of them!"

"And be content being a good little boy?" Snape sneered.

"Yes, I'll be g-good," Harry agreed, feeling out of control and exhausted.

"Good," Snape gave him one last awful, almighty slap, then pulled him up to his feet. Harry's face was streaked with tears and sweat, but he couldn't stop crying, and all he wanted was to curl up in a corner and sob himself into oblivion and despair.

But Snape plopped him down on the sofa, causing Harry to hiss sharply as his sore bottom hit the leather seat. He couldn't look at Snape, couldn't look anywhere but at his shaking hands because he would never live this down, and Snape would let everyone know that he had spanked the Boy-Who-Lived. Really, if the famous savior couldn't defend himself against a punishment from an irate potions master, what chance did he stand against the evilest wizard to have ever lived and died and come back, and now it was as good as over because–

"Potter, stop it. You're only working yourself up," Snape snapped. Then he sighed heavily and pulled out a folded white handkerchief and held it out to Harry. "Wipe your eyes and calm down. Yes, I spanked you, but you deserved it, and I don't think anyone would have disagreed with me, having witnessed your behavior."

"But I'm almost sixteen," Harry tried to hide behind the handkerchief which felt gentle and soft against his swollen eyes.

"I don't care if you're almost twenty-six, you will learn to follow the rules. Now, hush."

"But I couldn't save them," Harry tried to wipe away his tears, but they just kept coming. "I tried, I did, but I have to do something to –"

"I said hush," Snape stood. "The only thing you're doing tonight is going to bed."

He pulled Harry up off the sofa, his hand around Harry's upper arm. Harry expected him to throw a handful of Floo powder in fireplace and shove Harry back into it. Instead, Snape dragged him into the hallway, then up a large flight of stairs and down another hall lined with portraits that peered eagerly out from their frames and discussed the new arrival to Snapdragon Manor in hushed whispers. Snape's grip was not painful around Harry's arm, but tight and commanding as he steered the boy into a dark room.

Snape pointed his wand to the fireplace and a blazing fire sprung upon the logs, warming the cold room. Snape lit the chandelier and a large candelabrum before turning to Harry who was still sniffling.

"Mr. Potter, please go into the bathroom and brush your teeth and attend to your other needs. You will find something to change into in there, and then come back here. Though I'm sorely tempted to have you take a bath and give you another licking to remind you of your atrocious behavior... "

Harry fled to the bathroom before his fearsome potions master could change his mind. The lights on the wall flared up as soon as he opened the door. The bathroom was lofty with marble floor and a huge iron bathtub, but Harry hurried to the mirror to look at his face. He barely recognized himself - his face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, and tears had streaked with soot down his cheeks. Harry pulled off his dirty clothes and reached for the pair of white pajamas that had suddenly materialized before realizing that he had left his cloak downstairs. What if Snape destroyed it? Harry thought about rushing back in the bedroom and demanding the cloak, but suddenly he felt exhausted. He just wanted to curl up in some dark corner and hide, not start another fight that would probably get his throbbing buttocks coated a deeper shade of red.

Really, who would have ever guessed that Snape had such a firm hand? Harry imagined that the potions master would be in for longer, more tortuous punishments such as disemboweling toads or scrubbing caldrons for hours, not something so old-fashion and personal. His bottom was still stinging; Harry hissed as he pulled up the pajama bottoms and shifted from foot to foot, trying to ease the heat.

Scared Snape might come in if he didn't hurry, Harry brushed his teeth with the little silver toothbrush and mint toothpaste on the sink and washed his face and hands. Then he carried his dirty clothes back in the bedroom.

Snape frowned at him. "Put the clothes on the chair there and get in bed."

Harry looked at the large bed where Snape was pulling the covers back. Harry's bed at Hogwarts was not that big, and this one looked so deep and inviting. But what he doing – sleeping at Snape's home? Was he suicidal?

"Now, Potter!"

Harry climbed in the big bed and sat back apprehensively against the pillow. What if the bed was some sort of trap? Like an invisible cage that would crash down from the ceiling, holding him prisoner. Or manacles that would spring out of the headboard and restrain him while Snape produced torture instruments. Well, he wasn't going to sleep, that was for certain.

"Here, drink this," Snape handed him a pale white mug.

Years of scary potions lessons had taught Harry to be wary of drinking anything Snape gave him. Tilting the mug around, Harry gently sloshed the dark liquid inside for some clue as to its contents.

"Potter," Snape warned, his frown back, "do not test my patience tonight. There is no Dumbledore for you to run to and whine."

Throwing caution to the wind, Harry braced himself and took a deep sip of the drink. He nearly choked when he realized that it was not a nasty potion, but steaming hot chocolate, creamy and rich. He drank all of it, not realizing how thirsty he was, and then waited. He expected a bitter aftertaste or change in his body – he might fall unconscious or become immobilized on the bed, helpless for whatever experiments Snape would perform. But nothing happened, and Snape took back the mug with a roll of his eyes at Harry's expectant expression.

Harry let out a long, shuttering breath, suddenly too tired to care if Snape had poisoned him or not.

"What's the matter now?" Snape ground on. "You're always sighing or complaining about over something."

The emotions flooded back, but Harry could not stop them from sweeping over him.

"It was my fault," he whispered, and a single tear rolled down his face. "Sirius died because he came to save me."

"Yes, Potter," sarcasm laced Snape's voice, "you forced Black to go to the Ministry, you made the Death Eaters come fight, and then you made Bellatrix fire that curse that knocked him into that portal. I see why you are taking responsibility for your actions. What could you have done differently?"

"You said I rush into things without thinking," Harry protested. "You said I was impulsive and conceited, and when I feel bad about it, you tell me it's not my fault."

"You know what I mean," Snape was very stern, crossing his arms over his chest as he towered over Harry. "You are only responsible for your own actions, not everyone else's. You may think you're some almighty savior, but you are only a boy with faults and feelings just like the next person, and I will not allow you to act so foolishly."

Harry could think of nothing to say to argue with Snape on that point so he simply let his breath out with a huff.

"Stop fussing," Snape ordered. "And unless you would like to sleep sitting up, lay down like a normal person, or on your stomach if that's more comfortable."

Trying not to huff again, Harry eased on his stomach. And then he knew the battle was lost and over as the soft bed held his tired, sore body in its gentle form. He pulled the pillow, smooth and stuffed with feathers, under his head and clutched it to him. He was about to reach back and pull the covers up when he felt the sheet and blankets moved up over his body to his shoulders. Had Snape just tucked him in? Harry tried to keep his eyes open, but he was fading fast.

"Thank you for following an instruction without complaint for the first time in your life. Glasses?" Snape held out his hand, and Harry handed him his glasses. The room grew even blurrier and more distorted.

"Now, Potter," Snape's voice cut through Harry's sleepiness, "though you may feel disinclined, I expect you to stay in bed or at least in this room until morning. You have a lavatory, and I will know if you leave this room. So I suggest you relax and sleep. I will not have a repeat of this evening or our last Occlumency lesson."

"No, sir," Harry whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open. He should care about what Snape was saying, but Harry wanted only to curl up tighter and give way to his exhaustion. His bottom still throbbed, but not a sharp pain, just a dull ache to remind him that Snape was quite capable of playing the role of disciplinarian as he was the evil potions master.

"We will deal with where you go from here tomorrow morning, so don't bother trying to write letters or sent owls in attempts of pleading for help from your adoring fans. Your one concern tonight is sleeping. In fact, I'm coming back in five minutes, and if you aren't sound asleep then, I'll make your punishment earlier feel like a few love pats."

Harry was trying to listen, but all he could only nod listlessly as his stern teacher lectured.

"Good night, Mr. Potter," Snape extinguished the candles with a flick of his wand, and the only light now came from the bathroom.

"Night," Harry whispered as his heavy-lidded eyes closed shut. He couldn't remember if he heard Snape leave, the man sounded like he was tidying up the room, but it didn't really matter because Harry thought... he thought maybe... just perhaps...

Four minutes later, Snape emerged from the bathroom where he had straightened up towels. He looked over at his unexpected guest who had intruded into his life completely uninvited. The boy was on his side, breathing long and deep, dark lashes against pale cheeks. The cursed mop of dark hair was sticking up in all angles, and Snape vowed that the first thing the boy would get tomorrow would be a haircut. And a bath. And some new clothes and healthy breakfast before Snape had to get rid of him.

Lost within sleep, Harry sighed and snuggled deeper into the bed, holding his pillow even tighter. Snape wanted to roll his eyes again. Really, the boy looked so little and innocent, belying the trouble-making, the insolence, the know-it attitude that Snape found so repulsive.

But he had spanked the brat. Really, what had he been thinking? What would Dumbledore say once he heard that his ugly spy had thrashed the precious savior of the Wizarding world? Well, it couldn't be worse than anything Snape had endured as a Death Eater.

The fire had died down, and Snape turned to it, Accioing some new logs to help stoke the heat. Sighing, he unfolded the blanket at the end of the bed and pulled it up over the slumbering boy. Well, it wouldn't do anyone any good if the brat got sick from cold or woke up shivering and decided to explore the manor. No, Mr. Potter was staying in bed tonight even if Snape had to tie him down.

However, Snape resisted the urge to place a binding spell on the bed – people under the spell tended to wake up panicked and hysterical. Snape did not want to hear any screaming in his house, even if it was Harry Bloody Potter hollering. Besides the boy had cried enough already tonight – completely over-reacting in Snape's opinion. The spanking had not even been that hard – Potter had endured worse injuries without making a sound. Snape remembered numerous Quidditch accidents when the boy had swallowed the pain, the whiteness of his lips the only indication that he felt anything. And a few smacks from his potions master opened a dam of tears and sobs?

Snape sighed again. The boy must be stifling the grief over the death of that mangy godfather. Really, Snape would never get a moment's peace at this rate.

Potter moved a little again, this time drawing into a tighter ball. He made a little sobbing noise in his throat as if not completely through with his grief yet, but his eyes stayed closed, and he didn't wake.

The next few moments Snape blamed for loss of mental capabilities or subjection to the Imperious Curse for he actually leaned over the bed and tucked the covers tightly around the boy's shoulders. He felt the boy's forehead, just to check that he had no fever – there was no telling whether or not Potter took care of himself during the summer, and Snape refused to think of tending a sick Potter. At least that was the excuse he gave as he felt the boy's cheeks as well. Potter's forehead was cool, but his cheeks were warm, almost hot to Snape's cold fingers. Well, he would check the boy out further in the morning. Waking him for an inspection would only turn him into a grumpy, cranky Potter, and Snape wanted no reason to punish him again.

Then, oh horrors, he brushed Potter's dark hair from his forehead, very softly. He even ran his finger over the famous scar, tracing its rough edge with his finger. Potter did not stir, but Snape straightened and jerked back. Had he just gently touched the brat, the curse of his existence?

Well, the boy would suffer for that tomorrow. Snape stalked from the room. The only sound was Harry's rhythmic breathing as Snape closed the door.


	2. A Bath and Breakfast

"Little blighter," Uncle Vernon shook his head as he picked up the discarded hammer, "not a moment of peace with him around. I swear, Petunia –"

"No, Vernon," his wife cut him off. "Don't start. There's nothing we can do anyway."

"Think he's coming back?" Vernon jerked his head towards the fireplace.

Petunia dusted the mantelpiece with a rag, straightening the pictures of Dudley. "Probably not tonight. I imagine we'll hear where he's gone tomorrow, or they'll bring him back."

Vernon swore under his breath, but Petunia looked over at her son. "Enjoying the show, Sweetums?"

"Yes, Mum." Dudley said around a mouthful of gummy bears. "Can I have more chocolate?"

The doorbell rang before she could answer. Petunia and Vernon turned towards the hall slowly.

"Don't move," he hissed. "Don't speak. Maybe they'll think no one's home."

"Don't be ridiculous," Petunia threw her rag on the kitchen counter as she walked by. "They know we're here. I don't want another screaming letter. You stay with Dudley, and don't let anything happen to him!"

Vernon opened his large mouth to tell his wife to come back, but she was already down the hall to the door. Steadying herself with a deep breath, she opened the door prepared for the worst.

To her surprise, the person standing on the doorstep was not a freak or anything frightening. Simply, a tall man with long dark hair dressed in a black suit, an impatient look of his face.

"Mrs. Dursley?" he asked crisply.

"Yes," Petunia held on to the door, ready to slam it if trouble arose.

"I'm Professor Severus Snape from your nephew's school."

"Oh, so you're a . . ."

"A wizard? Yes, madam, I believe that is the correct term. At the present moment, young Mr. Potter is at my home, asleep. He arrived a couple of hours ago, unexpected and gave me the impression that he was not planning to return to your humble home."

"We did not kick him out," Petunia insisted, aware that her husband was watching from the end of the hall. "He just stormed down and started attacking the fireplace, then disappeared in the green flames."

"Yes, it took him to my house," Snape watched her carefully. "But I take it you are not sorry to see him go?"

Petunia stepped closer, partly closing the door to cut off their conversation from the rest of the house. "I heard what happened – how his godfather died. And how the other boy died last year. I don't care what anyone thinks, when he was left on our doorstep fourteen years ago, I knew there would be trouble. After my sister and that man she married were killed, I knew it was only a matter of time before their murderer came back."

"That was a wise assumption considering how many people believed that he would never return," Snape noted, his face blank.

"Yes," Petunia crossed her bony arms, her lips tight, " but we did take Harry in, against Vernon's wishes and my better judgment. Dumbledore thinks I've been cruel, but I do have another son to think about. I only have one son and a husband to worry over. And taking into account that everyone who gets close to the boy ends up dead -" Petunia closed her mouth and stared down at the ground with red eyes.

"Quite understood," Snape stepped back. "I'm sorry to have bothered you so late in the evening. Suffice to say Mr. Potter will not be returning tonight or anytime in the near future if I can help it. You have been through a great deal, Mrs. Dursley, and I commend you for persevering. Dumbledore may frown upon your treatment of his favorite student, but you did all you could considering the circumstances. If I could take Mr. Potter's schoolbooks . . ."

Two and half minutes later, Petunia returned with a backpack full of books. She handed the bag to him.

Snape nodded politely. "Good evening to you and your family."

"Goodbye," Petunia softly closed the door and turned back towards the hallway.

"Well?" Vernon hurried forward, "what did he want? What's happened to the boy?"

"He's not coming back for now," Petunia briskly walked to the kitchen, turning her head so he could not see her eyes. "Not for a while. His professor took him. At least, I think it was his professor, maybe I should have made sure, but it's too late now."

"Ruddy bother," Vernon grumbled. "All this funny business, neighbors sure to see. We should have locked him up the moment he got here."

Petunia said nothing, only reached for the box of chocolates to hand to Dudley.

HP&HP&HP

Harry's first thought when he woke was that he had never slept so comfortably or woke so well-rested. For the first time in months, he had no sweaty nightmares or the grim reminder of reality sweeping over him. His only desire was to lie there in a tangle of warm sheets and blankets on the soft feather pillow and to fall back asleep. He thought he heard running water in the distance, but the sound only added to pleasantness of his hazy state.

The door on the far wall swung open, and Snape walked out in black robes. Honestly, didn't the man have any other clothes? Always black robes, sweeping around like a fearsome bat, even in summer –

Snape? Harry sat straight up in bed as the slightest twinge in his backside brought back a torrent of memories from the night before. He felt his face growing crimson.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," Snape neared the bed.

"Er –" Harry stammered, clutching a handful of covers to his chest.

"Articulate as usual," Snape smirked. "However, by now I should realize that your mental capacities don't fully arrive until noon if even by then."

"They come before then," Harry protested. "I mean, they don't _come_ at all. I mean, I always have them so they don't have to come 'cause they're already here." It was hard to find a good comeback this early in the morning.

"I rest my case."

"Uh, sir, what am I doing here?" Harry ventured.

"Oh, that is quite easy to explain, even for your small, if not non-existent, brain. You got in bed last night, and because you didn't get out to snoop around or explore or sleepwalk, you woke up in the same place that you started in. Fascinating, no?"

Harry ground his teeth in frustration. "I meant, why did I sleep here and not somewhere else?"

"I realized as soon as you arrived and began shouting that you weren't going back that you could only have two reasons for not returning to your relatives. Quite simply, either they kicked you out or you threw one of your famous tantrums and left. Though I was entitled to think the latter, both choices left us with relatives reluctant to take you back, very wise of them if inconvenient for me. Since searching for someone to take you in would probably last all night, I opted for the lesser evil and decided to let you stay here, though I'm sure your natural disposition will not let me take comfort in my hospitality for long."

There were several insults in Snape's explanation, Harry was sure of that. But he felt a little groggy from sleep and did not want to defend himself on every point, especially when he wasn't sure exactly what was a slur or not. He liked it better when Snape was short and clear with his insults. Then it was much easier to put up a good argument.

"Though I am sure that you are used to lounging away the morning, I assure you that I will not indulge you with breakfast in bed. Get up."

Harry flung the covers off and slipped off the bed. The floor felt cold to his bare feet after the warm bed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest protectively.

"Go take a bath and get dressed, then we'll go down to breakfast," Snape pointed to the door from where he had just come.

"Take a bath, get dressed," Harry muttered as he stomped into the bathroom and closed the door. "Really, I'm not a baby."

The porcelain bathtub was big enough for four people. It was filled with hot water, bubbles frothing on top like whipped cream. A bar of pale soap, a washcloth, and a bathbrush lay on one side, all new and unused.

Harry stripped off his pajamas and got into the bathtub. The hot water felt good to his muscles, still sore from painting. He was afraid that his rear end might ache, especially in so warm a bath, but the water only eased the last twinge from it. Harry was almost disappointed at the lack of any permanent damage to his hind quarters. Considering how his bottom had burned and throbbed after Snape finished with him, Harry was sure he would be sporting livid welts and ugly bruises. And with the way he had cried and carried on, Harry really wanted to show some sign of abuse, proof that Snape had beaten him. Well, not really beaten him, Harry had to admit to himself, if somewhat reluctantly. Snape had been firm, but not violent, more intent on teaching Harry a lesson than trying to hurt him. Nothing that he could use to get Snape into trouble, not that Harry ever planned to tell anyone about this, especially not Ron or Hermione. Hermione would be shocked speechless for once, and Ron would probably turn redder than his bright hair.

Then again, he wondered if any of his schoolmates had ever been spanked. He doubted Hermione's parents would have punished her in that way – she probably never did anything wrong now or as a little child. Ron – well, Harry knew that the Weasleys had used corporal punishment on the twins, but Ron usually didn't do anything to warrant so harsh a punishment. Neville – he wouldn't have the nerve to do anything his grandmother disapproved of. Malfoy –

Harry grinned, almost evilly. He could just picture Draco bottom-up, maybe even bare-bottomed, over Lucius Malfoy's lap, getting smacked good and hard for whatever crime he committed. Of course, after the Ministry of Magic, Harry hated Lucius as much as he hated Draco, but he could put that anger away long enough to imagine the mortifying punishment Draco would get from his father. Harry could hear his howls now, the prat begging Lucius for mercy as Draco's bottom turned raw. Yes, very satisfying.

"I don't hear you washing," Snape's voice cut through the closed door. "Stop playing and wash quickly."

"Make me," Harry muttered, frustrated that his pleasant daydream was interrupted. He never got to relax in a bathtub at the Dursleys. He was limited to three-minute showers, usually after Dudley had used up all the hot water. Whatever was in the bath and bubbles helped ease his tense muscles, and Harry wanted to stay like this, leaning against the warm back of the tub, forever.

With a sigh, he reached for the soap. However, the soap moved down the edge of the tub. Harry reached for it again, but the soap slipped from under his fingers before he could get a good grip. With a growl, he lunged for it with both hands, but the soap escaped again.

Then the washcloth and bathbrush rose up on their own accord and plunged into the hot warm. Harry watched in bewilderment as the cloth and brush rose from the water, and then the soap floated up to meet them, sudsing them up good with bubbles. Then both cleaning instruments attacked Harry.

The washcloth launched at his face, scrubbing hard. He tried to yell, but only got a mouthful of suds. The bathbrush began scouring his shoulder, rubbing so hard that Harry was sure he would have no skin left when it finished.

"Stop it!" he shouted when the cloth and brush left him. But out from the spout in the wall high above poured galleons of hot water, nearly drowning Harry in its fury. He twisted in the water, sputtering and spitting, and tried to claw his way out of the tub. But his ankles were pulled forward, making him side down from the back of the tub. He felt his feet lifted, and the bathbrush began scrubbing at his soles. Harry squirmed in protest, the bristles tickling his vulnerable feet horribly before starting to scrub his legs.

"Snape, make them stop!"

Then he was flipped over in the tub on his stomach, almost immersed underwater. Harry desperately tried to grab the edge of the tub and pull himself out. The brush flipped itself over and delivered three sharp smacks to his bottom with the flat of the brush head.

"Ow! You damn –"

He was pushed under water again while the brush and cloth resumed their assault.

Once the scrubbing was finished, another gust of water roared out of the spout, washing off the soap. All the water drained away down invisible holes, leaving a coughing Harry in the empty tub.

"Snape, ( _cough)_ let me out _(cough)_ of here!"

An invisible force lifted him up out of the tub and left him standing on the bath mat, shivering in the cool air. He wiped his eyes and looked up to see three dark shapes floating towards him. For several panicked seconds, Harry thought they were dementors. He didn't have his glasses to see properly, but he raised both hands to ward them off. As they drew close, Harry realized that they were three brown towels hovering in the air.

He barely had time to draw a breath of relief when the towels latched on to him, rubbing him dry. One towel went for his hair and rubbed so hard he thought it must be pulling out hair by the handful. He swatted the towel away, but another towel wrapped around him, pinning his arms to his side so the other towel could get at his hair without interference.

A chair appeared out of nowhere, and the towel wrapped around him suddenly dragged Harry back and into the chair. A pair of metal scissors floated out of a drawer, and Harry sat very still, watching the scissors open menacingly.

"Snape," he whispered, hoping the potions master might take mercy and come get the scissors before they could snip off his ears. "Don't."

The scissors started trimming his hair, sending little pieces of hair down on the towel. Round and round, the scissors cut until it trimmed all the hair from touching his neck and falling in his eyes. Of all the haircuts Harry had ever received, this was scariest, and he prayed it would be over soon with his hair halfway presentable.

Then the towel flew off, and the scissors dove back in the drawer. Harry brushed the itchy hair off his nose and stood up. Then he saw a bottle of lotion and a shaker of talc powder rise from the countertop.

"No bloody way!" he hollered as they drew near. He grabbed his pajama bottoms and swatted the cosmetics away. "I'm not a girl – I don't wear lotion or powder – get away!"

He barely had time to close his eyes before a spray of lotion splattered all over him. A new towel wound around him, rubbing in the lotion and wiping away the excess.

"You stupid - no, stop!" a gust of talc powder blew over him, smelling like fresh baby powder.

"Aghh!" he roared and tried to grab the container of powder to break it. The container rose above his grasp, but Harry jumped for it, determined to smash it to dust. He slipped on the damp floor and would have fallen to the hard marble below, but a towel caught him before he could hit the floor. Like a spread hammock, the towel eased him back up and wiped away the loose baby powder, giving his skin a soft, tender feeling.

When the toothbrush sailed across the room, Harry did not even put up a fight. He opened his mouth and held perfectly still as the brush scrubbed at his teeth. Fortunately, he was allowed to rinse before getting dressed. A pair of dark boxers and black trousers opened up for him to step into, and he raised his arms when a dark blue shirt dangled overhead. He sat down on the chair to put on his socks and shoes, and lastly his glasses floated over to rest gently on his nose, pulling the bathroom into crystal-clear clarity.

He stood up to walk to the mirror, wondering what he looked like with the new haircut and clothes. But before he could take a step forward, the bathroom door opened, and the bathroom spit him out into the bedroom. The door slammed behind him, and Harry angrily hit it. "Hey, let me back in. I wasn't finished – you can't push me out like that!"

"Mr. Potter," a silky voice said from behind him, "please do not hit the door in that barbaric way. This will be the second temper tantrum you've thrown in thirteen hours."

"What was that?" Harry demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the closed door of the bathroom. "It – it attacked me."

"Simply a morning washing spell," Snape said smoothly, "mostly used by busy mothers with too many children."

"I was going to start washing," Harry snapped. "I was barely in there five minutes, before everything jumped at me. The bathbrush hit me, too, three times."

"How very unusual," Snape observed.

"And the towels flew at me and tied me up so the scissors started cutting. And I don't use lotion or that powder stuff."

"I must have left that in there by mistake," Snape said, completely unconvincing. "I'm sorry the bath did not meet your prestigious standards. Though I did think you might enjoy it – after all, it allows you to lie back and do nothing, quite suiting for the hero of the Wizarding world."

Harry flushed red and clinched his hands into fists, glaring at Snape, too angry to speak. He did feel better after a bath, and the new clothes fit comfortably, not as formal and restricting as his school clothes or baggy and sloppy as Dudley's hand-me-downs. And it was better to have his hair a little shorter and not falling in his eyes or making the back of his neck itch.

"At least now you look halfway appropriate for Snapdragon Manor and not like a street urchin. Sit down for a moment – breakfast is almost ready," Snape motioned to the made bed.

Harry pulled himself up on the bed, watching Snape warily. There was no telling what the man might do next - he might use any of the dormant objects as a weapon against Harry as he sat there helplessly.

Snape reached into a black leather bag on the nightstand and pulled out a long glass object with knobs at the end.

"Open up," Snape ordered.

Harry eyed the thing. Except for the knobs, it looked like a thermometer, but with Snape you never knew.

"Open your mouth," Snape's voice grew hard when Harry did not comply. "Believe me, Potter, there's more than one way to take a temperature. Shall I demonstrate on you?"

Immediately, Harry opened his mouth and took in the thermometer without a second's hesitation. He was afraid it might burn his tongue or glue itself to the roof of his mouth, but it only felt hard and cold like a regular thermometer.

Snape reached in his bag and took out a gold pocket watch.

"Wass dat?" Harry asked around the thermometer.

"Hush," Snape answered as he took Harry's right hand and turned it palm up. Snape placed two fingers over Harry's wrist and watched the small clock intently. Obviously, Snape knew how to take a person's pulse.

Without a word, Snape tucked the pocket watch back in the bag and began feeling around Harry's neck and throat for swelling. Snape's hands were cold, and Harry, not used to being touched, never realized how ticklish his neck was. His shoulders hunched up as he tried to keep from giggling.

Snape's lips curved in a smirk. "Potter, sit still."

Harry tried, but he was very thankful when Snape removed his hands. In a clinical, detached manner that would have made Madam Pomfrey proud, Snape peered into Harry's eyes and tapped on his cheekbones. Harry felt uncomfortable with Snape so close and – concerned. He liked the man at least a few steps away, looking cold and critical. Satisfied with what he found, Snape removed the thermometer and checked it.

"Hmm, 99.4. A bit high."

"The bath was hot," Harry objected. "And I'm always warm when I wake up."

Snape reached into his bag and removed a small dark vial. "Drink this."

Harry thought about refusing, but then he had a mental image of his mouth being forced open and Snape pouring the potion down along with something else nasty and harmful…

Harry gulped down the potion. It tasted awful, especially after the minty toothpaste. "Ugh," he handed the empty vial back. "Yuck."

"I suppose that will do for now," Snape shrugged. "Of course, if your fever rises, we can always try an ice bath. I imagine you'll enjoy spending the afternoon packed down in ice with another potion to keep you from freezing."

Harry stared agape at him, but Snape turned and swept out of the room. Harry scurried off the bed and followed him downstairs.

The dining was large and spacious with seats enough for twelve at the long table. However, only two places were set, the one at the head of the table and the place to its right. Snape sat down at the head and motioned to the other seat. Harry sat down slowly, wondering why Snape didn't just send him to the kitchen for breakfast.

Two house-elves in neat dish-clothes came out with food. Harry expected to see several dishes to serve from, like a Hogwarts. However, one elf set a plate full of muffins, eggs, sausage, kippers, butter, and marmalade at Snape's place with a pot of hot tea. The other elf placed in front of Harry a bowl full of porridge with sliced bananas and a smatter of cream and a small plate of wheat toast with a tiny spoonful of jam along with a huge glass of milk.

Snape began cutting into his sausage and smearing butter over a muffin. Harry looked down at his bowl of porridge, thick and lumpy, and tried not to pout. He never thought about food at Hogwarts – it was always tasty and good – and at the Dursleys he was happy for whatever he got. But here, sitting at Snape's table with a breakfast made for a toddler . . . though Harry probably wouldn't have minded if Snape had the same breakfast as he did.

"Please start eating, Mr. Potter," Snape ordered, cutting into his eggs. "I know you must be hungry, and your breakfast is getting cold."

Harry picked up his spoon and took a bite of porridge. It was surprising good – hot and slightly sweetened with a hint of cinnamon. The bananas were fresh as was the cream, and he found himself enjoying every bite. The toast wasn't bad, either – not too dry, and the jam was sweet and tangy. With the cold milk, he couldn't wish for a better breakfast.

"Glad to see you enjoying the food and not complaining," Snape observed. "I was expecting our renown hero to demand his breakfast fit for a king. I never expected anything found in my miserable kitchen to suit your impeccable taste."

"I'm not that picky," Harry sat up in his chair, refusing the last swallow of milk from the glass just to irritate Snape. "Food is food, you know – you eat it."

"Another brilliant observation made by the famous Mr. Potter," Snape said scathingly.

"You know what I mean," Harry insisted. Somehow, he didn't find himself getting so riled up over Snape's comments as usual. "I'm not picky because most food is the same after a while."

"Just like a child," Snape shook his head as he poured himself more tea. "Precisely the reason I told Dumbledore not to waste time or money on students' food – they'd be happy with anything."

Harry wasn't quite sure if Snape meant that as a compliment or an insult. The man said everything in the same tone, making it impossible to discern his true feelings. Until now, Harry had always found it a safe bet to assume that Snape was in a bad mood. But could someone be in a bad mood all the time, every second of everyday without dying of depression?

"Now, Mr. Potter," Snape set his cup aside with finality, "I might as well tell you that I already went and spoke to your aunt last night."

Harry looked down at the table. He wasn't sure if he should be concerned or scared or relieved. Knowing Snape, probably all three.

"She was glad to hear that you were safe, but she seemed to think that if you came back, you were likely to run off again." Here, Snape fixed Harry with a stern look, and Harry squirmed slightly. "While I'm sure that would not be the case, I told her for now you would be staying somewhere else until school."

"Where?" Harry asked.

"I imagine Azkaban would be glad to house you, if only for a matter of weeks," Snape shrugged as he stood up.

Harry paled for a moment, thinking of the dementors swarming around a cell, slowing sucking the life out of him as he huddled in darkness.

"Oh, please, Potter," the potions master snapped, "if you are to ever defeat the Dark Lord, you have to stop being so vulnerable and jumpy. Live up to that Gryffindor bravery that you think so highly of."

Harry did scowl at that. He hated when Snape talked about Gryffindor ideals with that sneer. He could jeer all day at Harry, but talking about his friends was going too far.

"Up, Potter," Snape snapped his fingers.

Harry rose reluctantly from the table; he felt safer with a few pieces of wood between himself and the stern potions master.

"Until lunchtime, I want you to stay in the library," he led Harry down the hall with the portraits still whispering, "and keep quiet."

Snape pushed open the door, and Harry stepped into the library. It was huge – two stories high with spiral steps leading up to shelves that stretched to a domed ceiling. It was possibly bigger than the library at Hogwarts. Hermione would have drooled in the doorway.

"You can read any book that will open," Snape gestured to the shelves. "And books that won't are forbidden. Do not try to force open a book that does not fall open easily. You will not like the end results. But not to worry – most of the books you should not read are on the top shelves beyond your reach. Your schoolbooks are on the table along with a few suitable books – I suggest you start on your homework."

"But I have two months before school starts," Harry objected. "I don't want to study – I want to know what's going to happen to me."

"You'll know when the time is right," Snape told him. "For now, I want you to stay in here and study or read or whatever you have to do to keep still and quiet."

Harry felt the old anger rising up in him. This was just like last summer when he was locked away at the Dursleys, cut off from the wizarding world. Now, he was in a wizard's house, but he felt more isolated than ever. Snape would not leave any newspapers lying about for him to see, and it was very likely that Snape would search through any letters that Hedwig or any other owl brought. Harry might as well be locked up in Azkaban until school started.

"No, you tell me now," Harry insisted, crossing his arms defiantly. "Or I'll stand here all day. I have a right to know what's going to happen to me."

Without a word, Snape reached out and grabbed Harry's ear in a tight pinch.

"Ow!" Harry tried to pull free, but Snape's grip was vice-like as if his hand had become a permanent part of Harry's ear. The man dragged Harry into the library and sat him down at the table.

Harry rubbed his ear, glaring at Snape.

"Now, Mr. Potter, do we understand each other, or do you need further persuasion as I used last night?"

"No, no, sir," Harry answered stiffly, "I'll stay in here."

Snape walked towards the hall but paused in the doorway. "I mean it, Potter, behave yourself. Or I'll put you in a full body bind and hang you from the railing upside-down."

He walked out and shut the door behind him with a decided click.

Harry waited anxiously to hear the lock close. He hated the idea of being locked up, even in a spacious library for a few hours. After a minute or two, he crept to the door and tested the knob. It was not locked.

He went back to the desk and sat down. What should he do now? Had he been locked in, he would have felt justified in yelling or throwing things in the library. But he wasn't locked in, and he had a feeling that Snape would not be pleased with books mistreated in his library.

With a blush, Harry remembered how he had destroyed Dumbledore's office the day Sirius died. Breaking things – expensive things – and yelling, screaming like a maniac. What if Snape had been there, watching such behavior? Harry had the uneasy feeling that Snape would not have stood by calmly while Harry raved like a lunatic. One thing was certain: he would not test his theory by having a tantrum.

Harry reached for the top book of a stack on the table: _Tales of Treasures: Five Stories about Priceless Possessions based on Magical Myths._ He flicked at the cover with a finger. The book fell open, and he found himself reading the first page of some fairytale story about a witch named Emeralda in love with a wizard who went on a long quest in search of a necklace that would give its owner invincibility. At first Harry thought it might be a wizard version of _Lord of the Rings_ , but as he read on, the story turned out to be completely different as the wizard traveled inside the Pits of Darkness to find the necklace.

Harry forgot about Snape, he forgot about studying, he forgot that he was even in a library. All that matter was Timord (the name of wizard) finding the necklace. Fifty pages, a hundred, Harry read on until at last Timord after two years of searching, found the necklace.

_There laying in the box, as simple and pure as the morning sunlight was the necklace, made of brightest gold with a tiny hourglass in its center. Timord picked up the necklace and placed it around his neck. He began twirling the hourglass around in his fingers, faster and faster. He thought of his love for the beautiful Emeralda._

_And then the walls of the cave faded, and he found himself in the bedroom of his lady. She glanced up with a smile._

" _Why darling," she exclaimed, "why are you back so soon?"_

" _So soon?" he laughed. "I've been gone over two years."_

" _No, she shook her head, sending her hair dancing in the moonlight, "you left this morning. I just bade you farewell."_

_Timord looked down at the necklace around his neck and touched the hourglass gently._

The story went on to say how Timord married his witch and lived happily ever after, but what really caught Harry's attention was the footnote at the end of the story.

_Though this tale is considered a myth, the Necklace of Timord is an actual timeturner from the days before Merlin. It was last seen in 1598 during witch trial when the witch disappeared while being led to her hanging. The Necklace of Timord is reported not only to take its wearer back in the time, but also to the precise place that the wearer envisions. Also the Necklace renders its wearer impervious to harm, making the Necklace one of the more sought-after Dark Magic objects._

_Our next story begins on a dark island where seven shipwrecked sailors stumbled upon a treasure beyond their wildest dreams . . ._

Harry put the book down slowly. He had enjoyed the story – a little frilly and fussy for his tastes, obviously written for girls as well as boys – but the Necklace caught his attention completely. Could there be such an object in the world? It had last been sighted over four hundred years ago, but by wizards' standards, that was not so very long. If he found it, it would not only take him back to save Cedric and Sirius, but to the exact place he needed to be to find them.

Harry grabbed a piece of paper out of his backpack and reached for a quill. Hastily, he wrote down _the Necklace of Timord_ and below scratched _Disappeared in 1598 at witch's trial_. He would search the entire library for any information about the Necklace and take notes on everything he found.

As for Snape – well, sooner or later the man had to let him out of the manor, and when he did, Harry would be ready for his quest. But he wouldn't say a word about this to Snape – the last thing he needed was for the potions master to know that the savior of the wizarding world was going on another heroic journey.


	3. Getting Warmer

Harry reached as far as he could on the ladder. The red-bound leather book was just beyond his fingertips. He tried to scoot the ladder a little farther, but it was already to the edge. Harry strained a little more.

The red book was at the very edge of the highest shelf of library; the floor seemed miles below, but after years playing Quidditch on broomstick, Harry had a good head for heights.

Where was his broom for that matter? Had Snape left it at the Dursleys? And what about his cape and his wand? Snape must have hidden them.

Snape the kleptomaniac. Harry sniggered. He could just see Snape sitting in a circle discussion group at some rehab – "Hello, I'm Severus Snape, and I steal my students' things and hide them just to annoy them."

Snickering at the image of Snape being forced to share his feelings, Harry stretched his arm out as far as it would go. He had been all over the library looking for books on timeturners. Most books he found opened easily for him. Three had not, but their covers looked dark and dangerous, and one book had tried to bite at his hand.

Holding on the top rung of the ladder, Harry reached out a little father and suddenly felt his footing slip from the ladder. He scrambled to catch a foothold or grip on the ladder, but he was falling backwards, falling . . .

An invisible force caught him mid-air and pushed back up to stand on the balcony. He stood as soon as he felt solid floor beneath his feet, and he whirled around and look over the balcony.

"This is a library, Mr. Potter," Snape said from below, arms crossed with his wand tucked in one hand, "not a Quidditch field. And you cannot fly in here without a broom."

"I was reaching for a book," Harry tried not to scowl.

"What did I tell you about the books on the highest shelves?" Snape's voice grew stern.

"You said most of the books I should read are on the highest shelves," Harry replied. "You didn't say only books I shouldn't read are only on the highest shelves. Besides, I didn't try to open anything that wouldn't open right away."

His tone was not the most respectful, but Snape only frowned at him and motioned for him to come down. "Lunch is ready, so come along." He stopped when he saw the jumble of books on the table that Harry had been searching through. "Mr. Potter, what is this?"

"I was researching," Harry tripped lightly down the circular stairs, hoping Snape wouldn't catch him in a lie. "A transfiguration essay – for school – this fall."

"Obviously," Snape retorted. "I expect you to put these books back by the end of the day. The house elves are not here to clean up after you. And if you so much as crease one page . . ."

"You'll what?" Harry challenged, feeling foolishly brave. "Torture me with hot coals?"

"Oh, Potter, I would never use something so mundane and ordinary, not while I have a whole dungeon full of instruments that could have you screaming for weeks," Snape swept out of the library. Harry blinked, not sure if the man was serious of not. Blast that blank expression.

"Move, Potter!" Snape flung over his shoulder as he strode down the hall, and Harry hurried to keep up.

He had not found much useful information about the Necklace of Timord or any other powerful timeturners. Many of the books made references to timeturners in general, but nothing about where those timeturners were except the few that belonged to the Ministry of Magic. Harry was sure that the red book, _Bringing Back the Past: The History of Timetravel_ , might have had something to help him. He would try to get at that book later.

They sat at the same places as they had at breakfast. The two elves came out with separate plates as before. Snape got a huge salad filled with all kinds of good bits – chicken, bacon, dressing, cheese, and cut vegetables along with side crackers and tomato soup. Harry looked at his own plate. He had a big bowl of white soup and white roll on the side.

He tasted the soup: potato with barely any flavor, hot but very bland. And there was no butter on the roll.

"What is this?" Harry demanded.

Snape looked at him slowly. "I'm sorry, Potter, are you complaining about your lunch?"

"Why can't we have the same thing?" Harry motioned to both of their plates.

"Did you not just say this morning that food was food, all that same after a while?" Snape took a bite of his salad.

"Yes, but –"

"Then I don't want to hear any complaining." Snape returned to eating as if Harry had not spoken.

Harry ran his spoon through the soup suspiciously. "What did you put in the soup?"

Snape let out his breath with a huff but turned to one house elf that was waiting by the table anxiously. "Minnonty, please take away my tomato soup and bring me the exact same potato soup that Mr. Potter is having."

"Yes, sir," the house elf squeaked as she took Snape's bowl and disappeared. A moment later, she reappeared with a bowl full of the white soup that she placed by Snape's salad.

"Satisfied?" he asked Harry.

"No, I meant . . ." Harry trailed off. Something was not right here. He started eating his soup, watching Snape closely. But the man let nothing show in his emotionless face as he started eating the soup.

Harry started eating the soup. But halfway through he found himself pushing it back. He should be hungry, especially after such a plain breakfast, but he only stirred the soup around with his spoon, slowly going around and around. He felt Snape's eyes on him, but the man said nothing.

The clock stuck one o'clock as they left the dining. Harry waited, hoping Snape might be a bit more willing to share information with him.

"Follow me, Potter," Snape started upstairs.

Harry followed, glancing at the portraits which looked down at him. One elderly woman shook her head as Harry passed. "I don't like the look of him, Severus," she called out. "You can clean him up all you like, but he's going to be trouble."

"Please tell me something I don't know," Snape snapped at the picture.

Harry glared at the portrait, then stuck his tongue at her. The old woman drew herself up in shock and shook an admonishing finger at him.

A mustached man in the next portrait shook his head, muttering “Not the sort of visitor proper for the manor. Slouchy and shabby.”

Snape led Harry back to the bedroom that Harry had slept in. "Sit on the bed, Potter," Snape reached for his black bag.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm not sick – I feel fine."

"Now, Potter!" Snape ordered, his face set.

Harry sulkily pulled himself up on the high bed. "I feel all right. At school, you never cared if I was sick or not. And Madame Pomfrey worried too much. So I ended up in the hospital wing soon or later – everyone does at some time. Dumbledore said that Hogwarts can be a danger –"

Snape shoved the thermometer in Harry's mouth, shutting off his complaints. Then the man pulled out the pocket watch and took Harry's pulse. Harry rolled his eyes. This was completely unnecessary. Snape just like to make his uncomfortable. He was deliberately doing these things to make Harry angry and upset.

"See?" Harry said as soon as Snape removed the thermometer, "I'm fine."

"99.9," Snape put the thermometer back in its little case.

"Oh. Well, I just had soup for lunch. That makes my mouth warmer than usual. Madame Pomfrey always took our temperature before we ate, not after. In a nhour or two, I'll be fine."

Snape hesitated for a second and then reached out and placed his hand on Harry's forehead. Harry resisted the urge to jerk away. He most certainly did not want Snape touching him now or ever after what he had done to Sirius.

"You feel warm," Snape commented.

Harry pulled away. "That's because your hands are cold from sitting the dark dungeons so long," he snapped.

He expected Snape to reprimand him for his words, but an odd look passed over Snape's face. For a moment, Harry thought he saw something near concern in the man's eyes. But the expression vanished quickly, and Snape said shortly,

"Would you stop talking, Potter? It's enough to drive anyone mad. Shut up, and drink this." He thrust out a vial, bigger than the one Harry had taken that morning.

"But I don't feel bad," Harry objected, grimacing at the dark potion inside. "My scar isn't even hurting. And the stuff you gave me this morning didn't make me feel any different."

"Potter!" Snape warned.

With a growl, Harry swallowed the foul potion, shuddering at the nasty taste. It made him want to scour him mouth out to get rid of the lingering aftertaste.

"Now, lay down and rest for a little bit," Snape took back the empty vial.

That was the last straw. "You must be joking," Harry glared at Snape. "I am not some little kid. You can feed me bland food, and keep me in the library, and use washing spells on me, but I am not taking a nap!"

Harry moved to get off the bed, but suddenly Snape hit him with a body-binding hex. Harry felt all his limbs go rigid as if his muscles no longer worked. His upper body fell back on the bed, and Harry found himself staring up at the ceiling. He could blink and move his eyes, but no other muscle followed his command to move.

"Finally, a moment of peace from you," Snape put his wand back in his robes and moved towards the bed. "Just like your father, always making demands and strutting around like you own the place and everyone in it."

Harry could only glare at him as Snape came into view. In desperation, he tried to remember if there were any counter curses for body binds. He couldn't think of any off hand, and didn't you need a wand, and he wasn't very good at nonverbal spells, but he would have to be because he couldn't move his mouth and . . .

"Calm down," Snape cut through Harry's tumble of thoughts. "You are probably the only person who can work himself into a panic while in a body bind."

Harry saw Snape's hand reach out, then he felt Snape's hands on his shoulder, slowly rolling him onto his side. Snape placed a pillow under Harry's head and then lifted Harry's feet up onto the bed and began unlacing his shoes.

Harry concentrated on breathing. He really had no control over that either as his body continued to take and let out breaths without his control. But he had to focus on something other than Snape so close and dangerous. Harry felt his shoes being slipped off, and then a soft coverlet was draped over him to the waist.

Snape bent Harry's arms at the elbows and then tucked them under his chin in the way he had seen the boy sleeping last night. Harry tried to speak with his eyes, to scream silently at Snape to let him go or he would be sorry later. But the potions master only pulled the coverlet up around his shoulders and stepped back from the bed.

"I'm warning you, Potter, I will not put up with your defiance, not in my house. I am more than capable of dealing with spoiled brats so you better learn to behave or you will not find your stay here comfortable. Now, try to get some sleep, and this afternoon I'll let you walk around the grounds before supper. You can stare at the wall as long as you like to satisfy your sulky determination, or you can make yourself relax and have a pleasant nap. Either way, you're going to rest here for the next few hours." Snape pulled out his wand and gave his wrist a flick towards the windows. The drapes closed over the windows, cutting out the light and turning the room dim and sober with the only light coming from the hallway.

With the usual billowing of robes, Snape swept out of the bedroom, and Harry heard the door shut softly. If he had slammed the door and had made the room shake, Harry would have felt better. But the gentle closing made him madder than ever, and all he wanted to do was grab the black bag and knock Snape over the head with it. And then pull out the thermometer and shove it down his throat, the evil ugly git of a bat!

Harry felt tears well up in his eyes, and he blinked furiously. He did not want Snape to come back and see that the famous Boy-Who-Lived had been crying. The comments Snape would undoubtedly make, sighing over the fact that the wizarding world was destined to be saved by a crybaby – Harry wouldn't be able to control himself. He hated Snape with every single bit of feeling that he had in him, hated him for calling names and being such a mean, evil man that liked to watch other people suffer.

A small voice at the back of Harry's mind whispered that this was not entirely true. Snape had not called him names last night when Harry cried from the punishment. And Snape didn't like to watch all people suffer all the time because he had stopped Harry from falling in library. And Snape was letting him stay here and not at the Dursleys.

Yeah, Harry would have pouted if he could move his face. Staying here was loads of fun – being bossed around and ordered here and there.

He closed his eyes, not to sleep but because it was dark enough in the room that it didn't matter if his eyes were open or shut. He would just lay like this and wait for the binding spell to wear off. And later this afternoon when Snape let him go outside, he would find a way to escape.

And he was not sick – no matter, what Snape said. Harry had had a fever as a little child, and he could remember that chilled, restless trembling of his limbs as he curled up and tried to sleep it off. He did not feel like that now. And he wasn't the least bit tired. He would tell Snape when the man let him up, before conking Snape over the head with the black bag.

Harry felt his closed eyes growing heavy, and his angry thoughts began to numb. What did it all matter right now? He would get Snape back at some future time, but for now just lying here in the warm and quiet bedroom without any concerns . . . felt so . . . nice . . .

Snape opened the door quietly and stepped in. He half-expected to see the brat staring right back at him, his eyes fixed and angry. Instead, Snape saw the boy sound asleep on his back, the coverlet wrapped around him like a cocoon. The binding spell was one that loosed only after the person was in a deep sleep.

From the looks of Potter's loose limbs, he was fast asleep.

Snape pressed his lips together tightly. He had only been gone ten minutes. If everything had been right, if nothing was wrong, then Potter should be still awake and in a body-bind, ready to protest that he didn't need a nap. And his fever was worsening.

Snape strode out the room and shut the door a bit loudly. He listened carefully, hoping Potter might wake and start fussing. No sound was made.

This was bad. Snape's walk was even quicker as he made his way downstairs and to his laboratory.

HP&HP&HP

Harry rolled over and yawned. He felt pleasantly drowsy and very comfortable. It seemed like he should be upset over something, but he couldn't remember what at the moment. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to think about what he should do. Then, he remembered.

Harry sat up and flung the thin coverlet to the side. How dare Snape? What kind of mind games was the dirty git playing at anyway?

Harry pulled his shoes back on, tied them, and headed for the door. He glanced at the clock on the mantle as he left. 3:35, it read. Harry paused for a moment. He had been asleep for two and a half hours? That couldn't be right; he hadn't even felt tired. The clocks were probably playing tricks on him, just like everything else in this blasted house.

It was so strange. He couldn’t even remember why he was agreeing to stay here. Could he leave if he wanted to?

He paused in the hallway. He didn’t want to leave.

Then what did he want?

He wanted answers.

But about what?

He met Snape at the bottom of the stairs.


	4. Even Hotter

"You're up," Snape noted quietly.

"Brilliant observation," Harry shot back. He always felt grouchy and short-tempered after napping during the day. Part of him wanted to crawl back in bed, and the other part wanted to slug Snape right across the face.

Snape merely raised an eyebrow. "Well, we are cranky this afternoon. Would you care for some food or a walk through the gardens or should I send you back up to bed until you can act civilly?"

Harry scowled but nodded, "I want to go outside."

"It's bit chilly out there, and it looks like rain," Snape led the way to a cloakroom where he handed Harry a green cape with cream lining. "Keep this on at all times."

Slytherin colors – wonderful. Harry grudgingly slipped the cape over his shoulder and closed the clasp that (surprise, surprise) was in the shape of a snake. "What about my cloak?" he remembered suddenly.

"This cape will be warm enough," Snape opened the side door.

"No, my invis- my other cloak," Harry corrected himself just in time.

"I've put that away for the time being."

"It's not yours, and this isn't Hogwarts where you can confiscate our things," Harry protested, feeling a flush of anger rise to his cheeks. "It's mine, my father left it for me!"

A sneer contorted Snape's lips at the reminder of the father of the boy standing in front of him. Harry knew that Snape was relishing the fact that he had James Potter's only son at Snapdragon Manor, completely at his mercy. Harry could do nothing to stop the potions master, not while Snape was bigger than he was and had a wand.

"Don't argue with me, Potter," Snape said sharply. "This manor may look harmless, but there are certain rooms here that would like nothing more than to swallow you whole. I don't want you sneaking around invisible and undetected and getting trapped somewhere for weeks."

"But –"

"I know you'll say you won't, you'll even promise not to wear it, but at the first sign of trouble, you'll put on that cloak and find trouble, and I'll have to tear the house apart trying to find you. No, you may not have the cloak."

Harry huffed in frustration, but he could see the logic in Snape's argument even though he didn't want to. The Invisibility Cloak was a temptation even with the noblest of intents not to use it. And he didn't want to be trapped in some corner of the manor invisible and helpless.

"Well, can I at least have my wand?"

"I don't see why you need it," Snape crossed his arms firmly. "You're underage - you can't use it until school starts. The last thing I want is for the Ministry of Magic to send another letter, dragging you back to a hearing."

"But if the house is going to attack me –"

"The house will only attack you if you're up to no good. As long as you stay out of mischief and do as you're told, you should have no problems with Snapdragon Manor."

That was hardly comforting seeing as how Harry planned to search every inch of the manor for timeturners, but he dared not tell Snape that.

"Now, out into the garden with you," Snape opened the door, letting the cold July light into the dim cloakroom. "You can roam as far as you like in the garden, but do not try to climb over the wall."

Snape shut the door after Harry walked out into the spacious grounds. There were beds of plants that seemed to stretch for miles. Harry recognized some of the neatly grown plants from Herbology. Several large trees grew over the grounds, and there was a bench a few hundred feet down the path.

Harry strolled forward, but he found himself growing tired. As soon as he reached the bench, he sat down and stared at the plants. He must still be groggy from his nap. He didn't see why Snape made him take one in the first place – just one more way that the man liked to torment him.

A bee was buzzing around the flowers; Harry watched it zoom up and down the petal, sniffing for nectar. He tried to remember what bees stung and died as a result and what bees stung and lived. Not that it mattered.

The garden kept going past the bench. Harry wondered if it ever ended or simply curved around the manor. He glanced back at the house. It was sober and dark, looming over the garden like an ill-boding guardian. Unlike the Weasleys' home, Snapdragon Manor seemed built at one time, an enormous planning of towers and awnings and empty windows.

Harry glanced up at the high wall behind the bench. He was certain he could climb it – it was only about seven feet high and made of crooked stones that were sure to lend plenty of holds and foot grips. By for now, he just leaned back against the arm of the bench, contend to rest for a while. He wished he had brought a book to read. He didn't consider himself a great reader – that was Hermione and her exhaustive memory. Harry wondered at times if she had a photographic memory, the books she read fell so nimbly off her tongue. It wasn't fair . . .

He felt something hard against his side, and Harry reached into the pocket of the cape. He removed a little book from the pocket, not any bigger than his hand with the words _Gordon in the Garden_ written on the front. Harry considered stuffing it back in his pocket, but of course, as always his curiosity won out, and he opened it.

The pages were tiny, but the printing was large enough was Harry to start reading. It was a fairytale about a price and princess who lived in a garden and tried to get out to see the rest of the world, but were guarded by a fierce monster with two heads.

The book couldn't have had more than twenty pages in it; yet every time Harry turned the page he found another page added on at the end. But the book would not let him flip to the end or go back. Obviously, this was the kind of book that made skimmers and re-readers go straight through without stopping.

It was getting dark by the time he finished the story. He saw the side door open and heard an insistent "Potter, inside now!"

As Harry trudged towards the manor, he couldn't help but think that all he had done today was sleep, eat bland food, and read fairytales. Yet, as he hung up the cape and followed Snape to the washroom, he felt himself hoping that Snape would let him go to bed early tonight; the thought of the warm bed with the soft pillows was very comforting. This was ridiculous – even toddlers didn't sleep this much.

"Well, what mischief did you find in the garden?" Snape turned on the hot water from the iron spout and handed Harry a bar of tan soap.

Harry plunged his hands into the hot water, enjoying the feeling of the fresh soap and the heat. "I didn't do anything. I just read the book in my pocket on the bench."

Snape seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, then motioned for Harry to hurry up. He flung Harry a towel to dry off his hands.

For supper that night, Snape had butter-lemon salmon, crisp greens, seasoned rice, pudding, and dark red wine. Harry was given a bowl of plain, white rice and a plate full of saltine crackers with a glass of water. He took one look at his food and demanded, "What are you playing at? What's wrong with me?"

"Mr. Potter, to begin to categorize what is wrong with you would take me well into the new school year. Why don't we leave that exciting list for later? Just eat your food."

"I feel fine," Harry was having trouble speaking calmly. Something was really wrong with him, and Snape knew it. Harry reached a hand into his pocket for his wand until he remembered that Snape has hidden it. Maybe he could do wandless magic. After all, he had made somethings work without a wand like blowing up Aunt Marge and the snake incident at the zoo years ago. Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Legilimens," he whispered, concentrating very hard.

He didn't really expect to see anything – after all Snape was very accomplished at Occlumency. But the man must have had his guard lowered the smallest bit because Harry suddenly saw a table filled with potions and ingredients, most of which Harry did not recognize. And Snape's hands were working over them furiously. He kept looking a large book propped up against a barrel of something dead and slimy. Harry tried to go in for a closer look –

Then he felt himself being flung against the back of his chair. Snape stood, his wand pointed out at Harry. "What do you think you're doing, Potter?" he roared.

"Nothing, I was just –"

"You were using Legilimency on me! Without my permission or even telling me, you decided to invade my thoughts and see what you could find!"

"You wouldn't tell me," Harry protested. "I thought maybe something was really wrong with me and –"

"So you decided you knew better than I did, and you were going to find out at all costs!" Snape thundered. "What did I tell you about snooping around in my personal matters?"

"Not to, but –"

Harry was cut off as Snape grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of his seat. Harry found himself bent over the dining room table, nose nearly touching the cream-colored tablecloth. One strong hand held him down on the small of his back, and then Harry felt fire lash across his backside. He hissed sharply. This hurt more than Snape's hand had the previous night. Another stroke – Harry yelped and realized that Snape was using his wand to soundly smack his houseguest's squirming bottom. This could not be happening again, not so soon after the first one.

"Stop!" Harry managed in between yelps. "I promise I won't _ow!_ snoop any more. Ah! Snape, come on!"

"That's Professor Snape to you," Snape growled, not relenting in his determination the least bit. He pressed down a little harder on Harry's back to keep him down and delivered another set of sharp whacks. "You should know by now that when people keep things from you, it's probably for your own good. But no, you insist on finding out everything. Knowledge can be very, very dangerous for your well-being, you could be killed for knowing too much too soon. So when I say stay out of my business, I mean everything, both physically and mentally."

"I will, I will," Harry cried.

"I mean it, Potter, you better learn to mind me, or you'll find yourself in this position again."

Snape gave him one last tremendous smack and then pushed him back into his chair. Harry gritted his teeth as he fell on the hard chair that minutes ago had felt nice and comfortable. This was completely unfair. He had a right to know about himself and if anything was wrong with him. The whole bloody Wizarding world was so fond of secrets and sneaking around. The throbbing in his backside told him not share his opinion with the potions master.

Snape took his seat as calmly as if nothing had happened. "Eat, Potter. Don't make me tell you again."

Blinking back tears, Harry looked at his food. If he had to be honest (which he really hated having to be at this moment) he would admit that he was surprised Snape ended his spanking so soon. The man had barely delivered a dozen good smacks. Compared to the thrashing he had handed out the night before, Snape had gone easy; the man was not in favor of telling Harry to do or not to do something twice.

It must be because Snape knew something was wrong with Harry. He was going easy on Harry because Harry was sick, or dying, or cursed, or –

"Potter, if I have to tell you one more time to eat, I will give you another dose of the discipline you so obviously need," Snape threatened.

Harry took a deep breath and picked up his fork. The rice was hot and lightly salted, but it stuck to the top of Harry's mouth and he had difficulty swallowing it. He took two more bites before laying his fork down with frustration.

"At least drink all the water," Snape nodded towards the glass.

The water was not cold, just about room temperature, but Harry started gulping it down, praying he would not burst into tears. He could feel his eyes prickle at the corners, but he refused to cry in front of Snape again.

The meal continued in silence, and Harry tried not to squirm too much on his aching backside. Two spankings in two days – even naughty little children probably didn't get spanking that often. Harry had hoped that last night was just a fluke, something Snape had to get out of his system before he could deal with Harry properly. Harry had not liked it, not one little bit, but it had felt good emotionally just to get everything off his chest and have a good cry. But he had hoped the punishment was a one-time thing, never to be used again. He had expected Snape to threaten him with a spanking, just to keep him in line, but actually doing it . . .

Harry shifting, wondering why the chairs had to be so bloody hard. He was wrong for trying to use Legilimency on the potions master. Snape at least had given him warning when he invaded Harry's mind, and then it had been at a lesson, not sitting at the dinner table and doing it because you were nosy. Besides, what if he discovered something horrible?

Snape had been a Death Eater, he had been at more than one of Voldemort's gatherings, he had done evil, awful things to other people, and he had been ready to die for the wrong side. And like it or not, there was a lot Harry didn't know about the wizarding world. It seemed that each year he discovered more and more just how ignorant he was, having grown up as a Muggle for eleven years. He hated to admit it, but Snape was probably more aware of the danger than Harry would ever be.

"Whatever you're thinking, Potter," Snape cut through his pondering, "I don't expect it to affect your behavior. You may sit there as long as you like, pouting and sulking, but you will obey me as long as you stay under this roof."

Cheeks flushing even redder, Harry looked away.

HP&HP&HP

That night Harry went to bed with much less fuss than the night before. Though he approached the bathroom with caution, armed with a pair of pajamas and a wooden hairbrush, nothing unusual happened. All cleaning instruments stayed in their places, and Harry brushed his teeth without any help.

Snape was searching though his black bag when Harry entered the bedroom. Harry rolled his eyes but got up on the bed and opened his mouth for the thermometer.

"How high?" he asked a few minutes later when Snape removed it.

"100.2," Snape replied.

Harry shrugged. "So maybe I have a cold or a slight fever. Everyone gets sick."

"When was the last time you were sick?" Snape demanded, pulling out an even bigger vial of the dark medicine.

Harry tried to think. It had been a while. For that matter, had he ever been sick at Hogwarts? "It happens," he insisted though with less conviction. "And how do you know it’s not one of the side effects from that gross potion? Sometimes, the side effects of medicine are worse than the disease, like they say on television."

"And sometimes," Snape sneered, "you know less about potions than I ever thought possible. For once and for all, medicine does not equal potions and vice versa."

"Let me go tonight without the potion," Harry coaxed, eyeing the mixture with disgust. It would take at least five swallows to get it all down.

Snape opened his mouth to say something, but he hesitated and say instead, "Just take it, Potter and stop wasting my time."

Harry raised the vial to his lips and tried to gulp it down as quickly as he could. He swore it was getting nastier every time he took it. At this rate, he would be swallowing gallons of this stuff by the end of week. He thrust it back at Snape with a snarl and rolled over into bed, pulling the covers over himself. He just wanted Snape to leave so Harry could lie in the darkness and worry.

"This self-pity is so attractive on you," Snape observed as he began putting out the lights. "You are acting like the spoiled brat that I always knew you were, expecting the whole world to line up just right for you and pamper your every request."

"Oh, just shut up!" Harry snapped.

He expected Snape to deliver a hard wallop to his sore backside for his insolence, but the potions master only turned off the last bit of light before saying, "Manners, Mr. Potter. I doubt you want another session with my hand or wand so soon. Tomorrow you'll be writing an essay on how to respect and obey one's elders. Three feet long along with a list of appropriate punishments for disrespect and disobedience. Being such arrogant know-it-all, I'm sure you can come up with plenty of fitting punishments for stepping out of line."

Harry growled between clenched teeth but said nothing. Snape was the evilest, lowest, cruelest, meanest, worstest man to have ever walked the face of the earth. Even Voldemort was in favor of short torture and quick death, not this slow prolonged torment that wore on Harry's nerves.

"Now, go to sleep, and no getting out of bed until morning," Snape ordered.

Harry could hear Snape moving around the room for a few minutes, but Harry refused to say again else. He was quite content to lie in the darkness and hate the potions master.

He was half-asleep, feeling like dead weight, when something turned him over onto his back. Harry could hear words being spoken, something like a spell, but they were all jumbled and made no sense.

He was dreaming, dreaming something completely ridiculous. Harry rolled back on his side and fell right back into a sound sleep.

The next morning, Harry could barely open his eyes they felt so heavy. "Snape," he whispered.

The potions master was at his side in seconds, a wet cloth in his hand. "Good morning, Mr. Potter. No, don't get up. You're going to stay in bed for a little while today." He placed the cool washcloth on Harry's forehead and reached for the black bag that Harry now hated.

Harry swallowed, trying to calm his panic rising from his hazy state. "Please, what's wrong with me? I promise I'll stay here, good and quiet, if you just tell me."

Snape frowned, then reached for the thermometer. "All right, open up." Harry took in the thermometer, and Snape reached for his wrist to check his pulse. "Have you ever traveled by Floo powder before?"

"Yesch, sev'al tims," Harry said around the thermometer.

"Well, my father thought it was a ridiculous way to travel. Popping in and out of people's fireplace, no sense of propriety or privacy, my father would say. He refused to let any of us travel that way from this house."

"But whad dus dat –"

"Quiet, Potter, you promised," Snape made sure the thermometer was under Harry's tongue before continuing. "Around twenty years ago, my father removed this house from the Floo network. He said anyone who wanted to talk to us could Apparate to our front door and knock. However, about two years ago, seeing as how he'd been dead five years, I put one of the fireplaces back in the network."

"Yeah," Harry nodded, though careful to keep the thermometer in his mouth "dat's 'ow I godd 'ere."

"No, the fireplace on the network in my study five doors down. The fireplace you came through is not in the network, is not connected to anything. It hasn't been used since my father shut it down."

Harry's eyes bugged out. "But 'ow –"

"That is the question, Potter. If anyone tried to use it, I assumed that they would be spit out of their own fireplace. But I know of only one person who succeeded in getting though since it was closed. I'm sure you can guess who it was."

Harry's eyes grew as big as they could. "Val-di-mord? 'E cam 'ere? But dat mens –"

Snape reached for the thermometer, but Harry pulled it out first. "102," he read, looking up at Snape nervously. "That's really high, isn't it? Shouldn't I be getting chills and–and . . ."

"Do you feel anything other than tired?" Snape asked, taking the thermometer from Harry.

"No, no, I just feel like I've run a long race or had a rough Quidditch practice, and all I want to do now is curl up in bed. But I haven't done anything, nothing," Harry tried to breath calmly, but panic was gnawing at the edges of his senses.

"I'll have the house elves bring you up something to drink," Snape pushed Harry back on the pillows. "For now, I think it best that you say still and rest."

"But what does this mean?" Harry bit his lip nervously. "Did Voldemort curse the fireplace? If it wasn't on the map, how did I get through? Why didn't it just take me to your study?"

"Because my study is listed as Snape Study, not Snapdragon Manor. And I did not think that the Dark Lord cursed it – he used it once sixteen years ago. We're just going to have to let this play out in its own time. Now, you promised me if I told the truth you would be, what did you say? 'Good and quiet?' Show me that Gryffindors pretend to keep their word, and relax."

That was easy for Snape to say, Harry thought furiously as he leaned back on the pillows and tried to digest all the information he had just been given. It was frightening to think that he may have been cursed by Voldemort unintentionally. Or had the fireplace cursed him? Harry had never heard about the elder Mr. Snape, but considering the somber, almost bitter look on Snape's face when he talked about his father, Harry could image that the older man probably did curse the fireplace.

Harry was sure he did not doze off, but the next thing he knew, a hand was behind his neck and a rim of a cup was pressed against his lips. It was that nasty potion, but the glass pushed insistently as his mouth.

"Drink it, Potter," Snape's voice came from a haze of darkness. "There we go, a little more. Almost done."

The hand let him fall back against the pillow gently, and Harry returned to sleep immediately. The next time he woke up, he knew something bad was going to happen. His whole body was tingling all over, little needles of excitement pricking at every inch of him. He tried to breathe evenly, but something was rushing through his body, spiking his senses and making his heart hammer with anticipation.

Snape stood in the corner of the room, slowly running a finger along the edges of his thin lips. He was watching Harry with an intensity that made Harry feel twice as scared. The man barely blinked once as his eyes roved up and down Harry's body, searching for something.

Harry hated it. He hated being an object of interest that people stared at, hated the whispers as he walked by, hated being different than his friends, hated everything about being the wretched Boy-Who-Lived, hate being here stuck with Snape for who knew how long. He felt angry, furious beyond the point of reason or good sense.

His whole body was getting hot. He flung off the covers and just lay there in his pajamas. This day was going to be horrible. He wasn't allowed out of bed, and when he was, Snape would make him write that stupid essay.

"I hate you!" he suddenly yelled at Snape. "I really hate you."

Snape rose slowly to his feet, and Harry feared for a second that he might be getting another painful punishment from the stern potions master. Then Harry didn't care anymore – he welcomed anything that might keep him from feeling so helpless and weak.

"Potter," Snape said hoarsely, his eyes wide.

Harry followed the direction of Snape's gaze. Then Harry nearly screamed as he saw a flicker of fire coming from his stomach, just over his navel. Without warning, Harry's chest burst into flames. Then his entire body was engulfed in fire, every bit of him suddenly a frenzied inferno.


	5. You're on Fire!

"I'm on fire!" Harry yelled. "Snape, I'm on fire!"

"I can see that, Mr. Potter," Snape nodded thoughtfully, as if he was observing a potion that had gone wrong with no explanation.

"Snape, my whole body's on fire."

"Don't move, Potter. Just stay on the bed. How do you feel?"

"How do I feel?" Harry felt half-crazy as he stared at his teacher with wide eyes. "I'm on fire!"

"If you were really being burned, you would be screaming with pain. You're not, you’re just panicking. How do you feel?"

"Uh-uh – hot," Harry stared down at his body that was engulfed in orange, crackling flames.

"Do you feel like you've touched a hot pot? Or like you've stepped in a hothouse with all the hot air and concentrated heat on your skin? Or like you've been sunburned? Or slept with too many blankets?"

"The sunburn – the sunburn thing!" Harry cried out. "My skin is hot and itches, and it kind of hurts, but not too much, but I'm on fire. I'm on fire!"

"If anyone were to ever receive an award for making the most absurd comments over and over again, it would be you, Potter," Snape sneered. "Just when I think you can't get any stupider, I find a whole new level of idiocy I never knew existed."

Harry glared at him. "I am not stupid. You're stupid."

"What a brilliant comeback," Snape smirked. "I would expect better from a four-year-old."

"You're mean and nasty and cruel and spiteful," Harry shot at him. "No one likes you – no one wants to be around you, ever! And we all hate your clothes and your hair. And – and you're horrible teacher!"

"Hitting me where it hurts – my teaching skills," Snape mocked at him.

"Yeah," Harry snarled, "I haven't learned a thing from you in five years. All those hours in that rotting dungeon, a waste of time! And when I become king of the Wizarding world or whatever you think I'm trying to be, the first thing that's going is bloody potions! Anyone that tries to teach or make potions gets a one-way ticket to Azkaban!"

Snape looked like he was trying not to smirk which made Harry even angrier.

"Yeah, and you're going to Azkaban as soon as I get off this bed and out of this ruddy house. I won't stop until they lock you away for good, you sodding git!"

"Mr. Potter," Snape's voice was irritatingly quiet, "you're not on fire anymore."

Harry glanced down. The fire was gone, and he was lying on the bed in his pajamas as if nothing had happened. The room felt eerily quiet after the loud crackling of flames.

"What happened?" Harry asked in a scared, surprised voice.

"Exactly what I thought would happen," Snape said calmly, "or at least one of two things. I knew either you'd burn out the curse from the fireplace or you'd die."

" _Those_ were the options?" Harry yelled.

"You didn't die – you should be grateful. Not to mention thanking me for not letting you burn to death."

Harry gave him a bewildered look.

"The potion, Potter! Really, sometimes I wonder how you manage to survive with such little brainpower. If the Dark Lord knew the idiot he was up against –"

"So the potion kept me from burning?" Harry interrupted, refusing to be called stupid one more time.

"Actually no, it sped up the burning process. I knew you would catch fire eventually because the Dark Lord did when he came through. However, it took him a full week to ignite, and it was not pleasant waiting in the least. I couldn't imagine dealing with your whining and pleading for that long so I made a potion that would hurry things up while protecting your main organs. So when you caught fire, you'd burn yourself out and not harm yourself. You became more and more tired because the potion was speeding the process along, and your body was trying to keep up."

Harry stared at him uncertainly before managing to say, "Well – well, you should have told me."

"And have you worrying about catching fire for two days? I saw you before each task during the Tri-Wizard Tournament– you don't do very well under pressure. You're better flying by the seat of your pants. Worrying and fretting only get you into mischief, as I've noticed many a time."

Snape's parental tone made Harry cross his arms and glare at the edge of the bed. He hated the way Snape made him sound so childish and impulsive, like a four-year-old that couldn't sit still for a single second without causing trouble.

"As for your disrespect –"

"I was on fire," Harry protested, looking up in alarm. "Whatever someone says when they're on fire shouldn't count."

Snape seemed to waver, and Harry wondered if he would over his teacher's knees in a moment, being punished for threatening to have Snape tossed in Azkaban.

"Don't let it happen again," Snape warned.

Harry bit his tongue before he could retort _"What? The disrespect or catching fire?"_ There was no need to test his luck.

"All right," Snape reached for the black bag one last time but this time removed a green potion, "drink this and see if you can go back to sleep."

"More sleep?" Harry was incredulous as he swallowed the potion. It wasn't too bad, kind of like peppermint and cinnamon. "I've done nothing but sleep since I got here."

"Potter, you just caught fire a few minutes ago. I want you to take it easy until I'm sure you've fully recovered. So, lie back against the pillows and stay still." When Harry glared at him, Snape raised an eyebrow. "I can always stun you if you think that will help you mind me better."

"But I'm tired of staying in bed," Harry knew he was whining, but he felt justified in his complaint. It was odd to have someone other than Madame Pomfrey worry about his health. His confusion grew as Snape plumped up the pillows before pushing Harry back on them and feeling his forehead with his palm. Harry felt an odd flutter in his stomach. Was this what it felt like to have a parent fuss over you when you were sick? Snape could be – no, he was creepy and evil and mean, not good parent material at all.

"You're not warm," Snape announced, his tone implying that Harry had finally done something right. "I daresay your fever broke. Try to relax for a bit, don't think about anything – go on to sleep. I'll come up later tonight and stretch your muscles so you don't get too stiff.

"Yeah, on a torture rack," Harry muttered as he turned on his side.

"As you wish, Mr. Potter," Snape gave a mock bow of his head before closing the curtains again and leaving the room.

Harry lay in the dark, trying to fall asleep but was really too wound up about what had just taken place. He had burst into flames. Surely, that wasn't a good thing. And Snape had known all about it the whole time and probably been thinking Hmm, is the Brat-Who-Lived going to die or become a human furnace? Either way, I'm sure to have some fun watching him suffer! Evil prat.

Yet, it was a little relieving to have someone else care about him and look out for his well-being. Harry began mentally checking off the people who had cared for him. The Dursleys – well, that wasn't really caring, but they had seen that he reached eleven without dying of hunger so that had to count for something. McGonagall – but she had to see to all the members of her house and he was just one of many. Dumbledore – though Harry sometimes wondered if the old wizard only liked him because he was destined to save the world, and after last year being so cold and distant…

Harry sniffed suddenly, his eyes hurting. He quickly went on to the next person. Hagrid – now, Hagrid was someone who cared about him. A little rough, definitely not a safe person, but Harry could trust Hagrid as long as the caretaker didn't have any ferocious animals around. And there was Lupin, who had taught him how to ward off dementors though the teacher had turned into a werewolf later and tried to eat Harry, but that wasn't really Lupin's fault. And the Weasleys – though they had seven children of their own and troubles enough to deal with. And lastly Sirius –

Harry swallowed painfully. Sirius had invited him to live with him once the man was cleared, but Harry could not help remembering how distracted and – and unfeeling Sirius had been the whole time Harry had stayed at Grimauld Place. No, wait – Sirius had been busy and Harry had been cleaning, which come to think of it had been completely a waste of his time. Harry had proven himself time and time again in the face of evil only to be locked up at his relatives' house and then turned into a cleaning house elf? It was so unfair, completely unfair for Sirius to let his only godson suffer.

Holding onto the edge of the covers, Harry waited for anger to sweep over him. He liked the feeling at times – it drove him forward and gave him something to care about instead of feeling empty. But no anger came. Instead, a wave of helplessness coupled with sadness bore down on him, and Harry found himself starting to cry.

_What a baby!_ his mind screamed at him, but his emotions wouldn't listen. His face scrunched up painfully, and his eyes were burning, and then tears were rolling down his face. He had never felt so miserable and distraught in his whole life.

_Get a grip, get a grip!_ some rational part of him pleaded, but he couldn't listen. No one cared about him, he was all alone, no one would ever love him, who would want to love him? He was a horrible person, an awful boy that everyone hated.

_That's it,_ the sensible voice told him. _You're crazy now. You've just won a first-class ticket to St. Mungo's. Room 543 – Mr. Harry James Potter, admitted for hysterical tears and excessive crying. If you'd like to see Mr. Potter, please look through the window where you can see that he is still crying. Four months now, and we have to keep him hydrated or he'll cry himself to death from lack of water._

Harry sat up in bed, wrapped his arms around his knees, and buried his head in the crook of his right arm. He could feel his tears dampen the sleeve of his pajama shirt, and his whole body shook with sobs. He remembered a Muggle book where the girl had enlarged herself, cried, then gotten shrunken, and nearly drowned in a sea of her own tears. Harry hoped that would happen to him so he might put an end to it all. No one cared about him anyway. He nearly choked with the force of his wails.

"I thought I told you not to think and to go to sleep!" a tight voice sounded from the doorway.

Harry looked up, and from a glaze of tears he could see a black form coming towards him. Maybe it was a dementor who would suck out his soul, which wouldn't be much of a treat for the dementor because Harry was such a low-down, horrible, pathetic, miserable, little person.

Harry felt a hand grip the back of his neck, and then a cloth swiped over his face, wiping his tears away with a little more force than Harry would like.

"Blow," Snape instructed, holding the handkerchief over Harry's nose. Harry did so, and Snape wiped briskly.

"What's h-happening to me?" Harry wailed, completely and utterly despondent. He gestured wildly to the tears that continued to stream down his cheeks.

"Just what I expected," Snape said, still dabbing tears away in a professional manner as if he were accustomed to drying teenager's tears on a regular basis. "The potion I gave you works faster with your emotions. I made you angry while you were on fire so you burned it quicker. However, most of your anger burned out as well, leaving you feeling vulnerable and upset. I was hoping that you might fall asleep before you had an absolute breakdown, but that didn't work." He sighed in resignation.

This new information did nothing to cheer Harry up; if anything, it made him feel more miserable than ever. He was just a lost little boy in a big scary world where everyone wanted to hurt him, and he couldn't protect himself.

"Now, Potter," Snape pushed him back on the pillows. "Why don't you try to think of something a bit – happy," Snape seemed to have trouble with the last word.

Harry blinked. "Like what?" How could he ever think of anything pleasant with Snape standing over him and his feelings running haywire?

Snape rolled his eyes. "Come on, Potter, there must be something that make you feel good, that you enjoy."

"Fl-flying," Harry sniffed, trying to stop the tears still leaking out.

For a moment, Snape looked like he was going to make a snide comment, but he merely swallowed and said, "All right, you like to fly. Some people aren't good at it, but you are, not surprising considering your fath – but no, you like flying. I suppose you mean at Quidditch."

Harry nodded, biting his lip to stifle a sob. "Y-yes, but other times, too. It helps me relax. You're up high, you-you know, and everything looks so small. If it's that small, it can't be such a big deal."

"Interesting perception. What else do you like?"

Harry considered. He wanted to keep crying, but he could not think and cry at the same time. "I like hanging out with Ron and Hermione, I like talking to them at night in the common room where we're not in class or around a lot of people."

"All right, that's sounds fun," Snape had trouble saying that word as well. "So flying and friends - lovely. I think you also like those chocolate frogs that leap around and are general nuisances."

"I like wizard candy," Harry nodded. The tears had stopped coming, but he still felt lonely and empty.

Snape reached into his robes, but Harry didn't see him pull anything out. The man rubbed his hands together quickly before asking, "Now, let's talk about things you don't like exactly, but you're glad when you succeed."

"Huh?" Harry squinted in confusion.

"Like studying for a class that you don't enjoy, but you're happy when you receive a high grade."

Harry nodded again. "Sometimes, I like having to work for stuff. If everything came easy, I wouldn't like it."

Harry felt something warm pressed against his own cold hand. For a moment, he wanted to jerk away, but the warmth soon spread over his hand and up his arm. He enjoyed the soothing sensation and held the warm thing even tighter.

"You like reading," Snape continued, oblivious to Harry's new feeling.

"Yeah, but not as much as Hermione. She remembers everything, and she reads faster than I do." Harry picked up the warm object in one hand. He admired the look of it before feeling it with both hands. Yes, skin covering muscle and bone.

"She is quite the know-it-all," Snape observed.

Harry frowned a little as he traced a blood vein over the object with his finger. "She's helped me in a lot of classes. Funny though, you would have thought we'd be in the same boat, neither of us knowing anything about magic before we came to Hogwarts. But she knows everything. Ron doesn't, and they fight, but they always make up."

"Do they?"

Feeling very relaxed, Harry turned the hand over and looked at the nails. They were short and clean though slightly stained with potions. How did you get potions off your hands? Were they like Easter egg dye, which wore off after time?

"They must make up," Harry decided finally, "because they were friends when I left school. Fights are so stupid most of the time, you know? You call names and chuck things, but at the end, you're still mates."

"Quite the philosophizer today," Snape commented.

Harry held the hand up to his – the other hand was bigger than his own hand. Harry tried stretching out his fingers as far as they would go, but they did not reach the tips of the man's hand.

"I'm so short," Harry complained.

"That's not unusual. Usually boys grow later in life," Snape said, not a hint of emotion in his tone.

"I hope I grow taller," Harry placed the hand palm down on his chest, enjoying the warm feeling that pulsating through it. He was beginning to get tired though he was supposed to be upset about something. What was he so sad about? Well, it didn't matter for now. He yawned. Snape was still beside him.

"Just close your eyes and keep talking," the potions master advised. "I'm still listening to your mindless chatter."

"Mindless chatter," Harry repeated as his eyes fluttered closed. "Mindless chatter, bindless patter – hey, they rhyme. Hindless smatter, timeless clatter, shineless . . ."

He drifted off, a faint smile playing around his lips.

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. He removed his hand from Harry's chest, hoping the last bit of calming lotion had rubbed into Potter's hands. Really the boy must be quite distraught if he didn't realize he was holding his hated professor's hand while he blathered on and on about his friends. Stupid boy.

Snape pulled the covers up, careful not wake the brat and start other sob-session. If it was not one thing, it was another with Potter. Must he always cause trouble, on the lookout for mischief all the time?

Snape pursed his lips together tightly. A perfect summer wasted. He was looking forward to two months of peace and quiet, long days spent reading and brewing without any children to disturb him, and now Potter, the very worst boy he could have imagined spending the summer with, was left on his hands. All the teachers he had owled agreed that Potter should stay where he was, and Dumbledore – short-sighted fool – had urged him to take advantage of the situation.

"Really, Severus," Dumbledore's face had said from the fire in Snape's office, "knowing what you do about the curses of Snapdragon Manor, Harry is much safer in your hands than anyone else's. I'll check back in a few days to see how you're getting along. This would be an excellent time to get to know the boy. After all that has happened to him, I think that you are the best person –"

Snape had ended the conversation then and set his fireplace back to right.

And now he was stuck with a distraught, upset, thoroughly-disobedient Potter whose entire being promised defiance and trouble for likely the whole summer.

Snape let out his breath in a huff. He should have let the boy to cry himself to sleep.

Harry twitched in his sleep and mumbled something incoherent. Snape felt the boy's forehead and cheeks again. They were cool – still no sign of fever. Well, that was one blessing in a torrent of misfortunes. Really, Potter never did anything halfway, did he?

Once sure that the brat would not wake again, Snape left the room and headed down to his study. He loved the somber brown walls, the tidy shelves lined with books, and the huge desk where he could design new potions without interruption. This was his retreat, his solace from the world, and he loved to spend hours here, all alone with a strong drink and pleasant reading. Here, it would have been easy to ignore the fact that he had an irritating houseguest asleep upstairs with no place to go. Snape could have buried himself in a book, and let the evening drag on for Potter would probably sleep until the morning now that he had been properly bedded.

However, Snape pulled out a parchment and a charmed pen and nodded to the pen. It sprung upright as rushed to the parchment and scribbled out the words _Potter's Hourly Schedule_. Perhaps that was a bit severe. The words disappeared to be replaced with _Harry Potter's Daily Schedule_ . That should do nicely though Dumbledore would probably preferred _Precious Harry's Suggested Schedule, Not to Be Taken too Seriously and Open to Any Changes_ or some other nonsense.

Snape leaned back in his chair, considering for a moment. Potter needed something constructive – there was no doubt about that, but if the boy was kept on too rigid a task, Snape was sure to hear sighing, complaining, and tears along with pathetic pouting and loud tantrums. Fine, a balance would be important.

Thirty-five minutes later, Snape read over the final draft of the schedule

7:00 – Wake up, bathe, dress, tidy up

8:00 – Breakfast

8:30 – Brisk walk around the garden (other exercising as well?)

10:30 – Studying quietly in library

12:30 – Lunch

1:00 – Playing outside (perhaps flying under strict guidelines?)

3:00 – Resting or reading on bed for a quiet time

4:30 – Free time as long as there's no noise

6:30 – Supper

7:30 – Studying or reading

9:00 – Getting ready for bed

10:00 – Lights out

A lovely, tidy schedule with neatness and preciseness. Potter would not make it through one day. By lunchtime, he would be chopping at the bit to explore the manor, climb over the stone wall, pound up and down the stairs, and shout in that loud voice that made Snape want to cut out his tongue. He could just see the brat's indignant look at having his time managed. "Resting on my bed? You're out of your mind. And I'm not going to bed at ten. I don't start my nightly wanderings until one or two in the morning. Study? It's summertime!"

Maybe there was some incentive he could use to get Potter to mind. _"Boy, if you don't do every last thing I tell you, you won't leave your room for a month and I'll burn your broomstick."_

No, too harsh. Potter would be sobbing in seconds.

" _Harry dearest, follow our little schedule, and it will be all lemondrops and lollipops at mealtimes for our sweetest boy."_

Snape thought he would be sick.

_"Now, Potter, I know you're used to floundering around all summer, but I'm getting you on a good schedule so you don't idle away your days. This is a good outline to start with, and if it needs changing, I will adjust it as I see fit. Your job is to stick to it as best you can without arguing or complaining. And I mean it."_

Yes, that was the right tone for the boy.

And it wasn't as if he were asking a lot from the boy. After all, Potter would probably be doing those things anyway without a schedule, but having an outline gave order to the day and didn't leave the boy a lot of time to wander aimless and find any naughtiness to get into.

Of course, Potter would make mistakes. As McGonagall, Dumbledore, and every other blasted professor in the school reminded him, children do make mistakes in spite of Snape's firm objection for leniency. Perhaps there should be a little breathing room for the summer. Too tight a control, and you crush the life right out of them, though Snape though the brat could do with a little crushing. Checks and balances would be the thing he needed. A way to tell if Potter was simply being human (yes, Snape did admit that the Boy-Who-Insisted-On-Living-And-Causing-Trouble was human after all). And he wouldn't expect Potter to act perfect. Knowing Potter, there were sure to be a few skipped meals in favorite of flying, late bedtimes, and excessive noise in general. But blatant disobedience could not be tolerated, either. Potter needed guidelines and disciplines. Between his worthless relatives and indulgent godfather, Potter had not had a lot of regularity in his life, no one to depend on through the good times and the bad, to keep him on task, and to see that he didn't get himself into too much trouble.

That meant that Snape had to be that person.

The potions master grimaced, thinking he would rather teach a whole year of Neville Longbottoms than becoming Potter's blasted rock of stability. Really, was there anyone else who would like to take the role? Anyone at all?

And what about punishments? Should he keep threatening to spank the boy? Time-outs? Pulling his ears? No supper, go straight to bed? Maybe creative things, like no talking for a day or hanging Potter from the ceiling by his ankles? Most likely, Snape would have to find a balance in punishments as well, seeing that Potter knew he had done wrong and showed the right amount of regret without absolutely loss of spirit.

Snape let out his breath in frustration as he leaned back in his chair. It was going to be a very long summer.


	6. Guardianship

Harry looked down at the field from high atop his broomstick with the wind blowing through his hair. He spied someone far down on the ground, waving at him. Without a second thought, Harry plunged down towards the ground as fast as he could. Usually, he could slow down at the last moment, but now he was going too fast. The ground was speeding up to him.

"Umph!" Harry hit the ground and rolled a few times before ending in a sprawl of limbs and broomstick. "Ow," he groaned sitting.

"What was that?" he heard a chuckle behind him. "You've got to stop being so clumsy, son, or you'll break your neck. Your mother already thinks Quidditch is too dangerous."

Harry felt strong hands grip him and pull him to his feet. Harry turned around and found himself looking into the grinning face of his father, James. The man's dark hair was blowing in the wind, and Harry couldn't help but grin back, knowing his own hair looked just as messy.

"Dad, what are you doing here? You've come to school in the middle of the semester?"

"Just checking up on you," James draped an arm over Harry's shoulders and pulled his son roughly against his chest in a playful manner. "Seeing that you're my son, I expect you to be up to all sorts of trouble."

"You sound like Snape," Harry grimaced teasingly.

James gave him a light smack upside the head. "Don't insult your father!"

Harry grinned again. They walked in silence for a few seconds, enjoying the warm sunlight. Harry began to feel stiff from his fall and rubbed his arm.

"What's wrong?" James was concerned.

"I'm kind of achy from practice," Harry shrugged. "Nothing bad – just sore, I guess." They had reached one of the practice tents, and James pulled him inside.

"All right, son, sit down, and let me see your arms," James helped Harry take off his arm guards.

As Harry sat down, James began massaging his son's arm, stretching it from the shoulder until Harry sighed with relief and comfort as the stiffness eased away. Then James moved on to the other arm, commenting,

"I'm not sure I liked the way you went after the Snitch in the last match. You need to stop getting distracted by the other players, and pay attention to catching the Snitch. It's the other players' job to keep anything from hitting you. Nice save on that dive, though. You had the whole stadium holding their breath."

Harry tried to reply, but he couldn't seem to speak. The tent was getting very dark, and Harry no longer was sitting in a chair, but lying on some kind of cot. James was continuing to stretch his muscles, moving on to Harry's knees and ankles, pulling and twisting. It felt so good, but Harry couldn't open his eyes or muster the will to move. In a tired hazy, he lay there as James pushed his knees to one side and stretched out his back before pulling his limbs straight again. Lastly, James pulled the covers up over him, and Harry rolled on his side, very warm and comfortable.

"Thanks, Dad," he mumbled before falling asleep again.

Snape froze at the end of the bed and looked back at the slumbering brat. What had Potter just called him? The boy must really be out of it – lost in some pathetic dream where his father was fawning all over him.

The boy had not seemed to wake up at all while Snape had stretched his muscles, and that was the way Snape wanted it. He didn't really want to touch James Potter's son in the first place, but he couldn't imagine listening to the boy's whining about stiff muscles tomorrow. Yes, Potter was dreaming because the boy wouldn't dare call him that wretched name awake, would he?

Well, hopefully the brat wouldn't remember it in the morning. Any of it.

HP&HP&HP

The light in the room woke Harry up the next morning. For a few moments, he blinked uncertainly, wondering where he was. He felt great, better than he had felt in a long time. The last few days seemed a blur, and he tried to collect his thoughts together. He had been so tired then, and had – had caught fire? That sounded stupid, but he remembered being on fire and yelling at Snape, but Snape had helped him some way. Then Harry had been sad, or upset – he couldn't remember. The most vivid thing he could remember was his dream with his father. It was almost enough to make him try to fall back asleep just to hear James' voice again, to remember the way he had hugged Harry, and tried to relieve his son's discomfort.

"Mr. Potter," a tiny voice sat from the floor.

Harry looked down off the high bed and saw a house elf peering up at him.

"Mr. Potter," the house elf repeated, "Master Snape is asking that you takes a bath and gets ready and goes down from breakfast right away. I is to make sure you obeys."

Harry scowled, but got out of bed. So much for returning to his dreams. "Tell him I'll be down as soon as I can. But the bathroom – it's not going to attack me, is it? Because if it is, I'm not going in there, and you can tell Master Snape that."

The house elf looked appalled at Harry's gumption, but nodded his understanding. "No, bathroom will not attack Mr. Potter at all. He will go in, yes?"

Harry approached the bathroom cautiously. He grabbed the broad, wooden hairbrush from the bureau on the way in and held the brush up like a cricket bat. If anything so much as twitched, he would smash it to pieces. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary so Harry turned on the faucets and undressed, keeping the brush ready in one hand in case of trouble.

Once in the bath, Harry kept an eye on the soap and bathbrush as he reached for the washcloth. Nothing moved, and Harry finally relaxed in the tub. Twenty minutes later, dressed in the clothes that had been laid out on the made bed and unscathed by the bathroom, Harry ran a hand through his hair in attempts to make it lie flat. The haircut he had received two days helped his hair look a bit tidier, but it still stuck up.

Harry hurried down to the dining room, ignoring the portraits that yelled at him to stop running and to brush his hair. Snape was already seated at the table and frowned as Harry rushed in.

"Mr. Potter, I do not allow running inside the manor. Next time you will enter a room quietly. Please have a seat as your breakfast is getting cold."

Harry was pleased to see that he got toast, eggs, and raspberry jam along with a large bowl of porridge. He had not realized how hungry he was until he took the first bite, and then he dug into the food with gusto.

"Potter!" Snape snapped his fingers together angrily.

Harry glanced up and said around a mouthful eggs, "What?"

"Has no one had time to teach you manners?" Snape growled. "Don't talk with your mouth full! Sit up straight, napkin goes in your lap, take smaller bites, and eat slowly."

Harry glared at him. "I'm hungry, and you never criticized my eating manners at school."

"At school, you were surrounded by hundred of students. I couldn't see you properly from the teachers' table."

"Yet, you were always sneering at me from there, giving me mean looks," Harry grumbled.

Snape's eyes narrowed, and he flicked his wand at Harry. Velvet ropes appeared out of thin air and wrapped themselves around Harry's shoulders and upper arms, tying him to the back of the chair. Harry tried to lean forward, but the ropes held him tight.

"Maybe that will help you sit up straight," Snape noted as he returned to his cup of tea.

Harry reached for his fork. His fingertips barely touched it, but he couldn't pick it up. Snape sighed and gave his wand another flick, which scooted Harry's chair closer to the table. It was awkward eating with his shoulders tied back, but Harry managed not to spill any food. Once he was done eating, Snape made the ropes disappeared, and Harry drank a cup of tea unrestrained.

"Now, Potter," Snape reached for a stack of papers and looked sternly at Harry, "to business."

"Business?" Harry repeated, confused.

"Yes, an owl brought these this morning. They're papers for temporary guardianship papers for me to sign, making me guardian over you until the end of the summer."

Harry choked on his tea and started coughing. Snape rolled his eyes while Harry coughed violently into his hand.

"Guardianship? ( _cough_ ) But ( _cough_ ) why you?"

"I don't know how much you think you know about the real world, Potter, but I'm guessing that between your relatives' home and school, you have little idea about how things really work. You may think you're all grown-up, but you do not come of wizarding age for another year, and wizarding law states that all underage wizards must be under a guardian's supervision. You left your aunt and uncle's home, so you cannot claim them as guardians. However, I cannot take control without your signature. For wizards over thirteen, the law requires that the ward consent to a change in guardians."

"What about emancipation?" Harry asked. "I read something once about older teenagers being emancipated if they were responsible enough to take care of themselves on their own."

Snape opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head. "No, Potter, I'm even going to dignify that with a response."

"Three years ago, I left their house and stayed at Diagon Alley until school started," Harry protested.

"That was a special case. The Minister of Magic had to make all kinds of exceptions because he thought you would be safer in Diagon Alley with an escaped prisoner on the loose. The year before, they transferred temporary guardianship to the Weasleys. I declare, you've given the Ministry more to do in the last five years than they ever had before. Besides, both times the summer was almost over, and now it's just beginning. You have two choices now. Either you sign this contract giving me guardianship, or you go back to your relatives."

Harry looked at him suspiciously. "Why would you want guardianship? I agree to this, and you'll probably lock me up or use me as a potions experiment. What did Dumbledore say?"

"He is the one that suggested it," Snape answered calmly. "He's busy with the Order of the Phoenix and wants to know that you will be safe until the school year starts."

"And staying with you is safe now?" Harry retorted, mocking Snape's cold tone. "Why doesn't Dumbledore just tie me up and deliver me to Voldemort to make it easy? Or how about take me to a Death Eaters meeting so they can do away with me without any problems? He thinks that staying with you, you the evil Death Eater turned potions master turned spy, is the best choice for me –"

Snape pointed his wand at Harry. " _Silencio_."

Harry found he had no voice – his mouth was open and he was still trying to shout, but no sound came out.

"Ah," Snape smiled with satisfaction, "peace at last. Now, Potter, suppose I tell you what would happen with me over this summer should you stay here. Any objects? No, I thought not."

If looks could kill, Snape would fall into his cup of tea, dead in an instant from Harry's furious glare.

"You may consider yourself all adult, but I'm here to tell you that I won't put up with any cheek or attitude from you. You have two choices – stay or go to your relatives, and shouting won't change the fact that you can't do anything else. I am less than thrilled at the idea of you as a summer guest, but I don't expect anyone to cater to my wishes. You are welcomed to read the over the contract if you like, but I will tell you that it merely states that I will be acting as guardian to you until September 1st, and that I am responsible for your wellbeing, your physical health, your mental state (what's left of it), and anything else that needs to be taken care of."

Harry tried to speak before remembering that he couldn't. He raised a hand to his throat, and Snape sighed.

"All right, but if you start yelling, you won't speak for the rest of the day. _Finite Incantium_."

Harry loudly cleared his throat. "If I sign this, what about at school? I mean, who's in charge when I'm there?"

"As in the past, the school acts as locos parentis – in place of the parents – for you while you're there. Come September 1st, this contract will be void and worthless."

Harry glanced over the papers, but most of it was in lawyer jargon that he could barely read, let alone understand. He swallowed hard. "If I do this, then what? How do I know you won't do something evil and underhanded – like give me to the Malfoys or lock me in a dungeon somewhere?"

"Potter, if I really wanted to harm you, I would have done it five years ago and saved myself all these years of teaching you and listening to your inane prattle. If I wanted to see you killed, I'd simply open the front door and let you waltz right out, unprotected and unguarded. A Death Eater would find you in a matter of minutes, the Dark Lord would kill you slowly and reward the Death Eater for your capture, and I could return to my breakfast without interruption. Is that what you want?"

"No, but you're . . ." Harry trailed off, unable to find the right words.

"Probably so, but you don't have any other choice than your relatives."

"Are the last few days what it's going to be like here?" Harry gave Snape a searching look.

The man nodded. "Yes, but hopefully without the fire or the tearful drama. I've drawn up a schedule for you to follow, but we'll look at that after you sign."

"Schedule?" Harry was suspicious.

"First things first. Are you signing or not, because I do have work to do?" Snape held out a quill.

Harry could see the ink on the tip. Should he sign? There was no use going back to the Dursleys – he'd never make any progress there. He did want to find those timeturners or the Necklace of Timord. But Snape as a guardian? Harry felt his stomach roll over uneasily. Who knew what kind of power Snape might have as a guardian? With no one around to stop him, Snape could do anything – anything he wanted while Harry was defenseless without a wand.

However, if Harry found those timeturners or the Necklace, he would be changing history for the past two years. When he got back, the contract wouldn't exist. He might even be living with Sirius somewhere and having a blast for the summer.

Harry took the feathery quill and lowered the tip towards the paper. He halted and looked back at Snape. "But what if I try to leave or you go into a rage? I don't want –"

"Potter, just sign the contract," Snape motioned to the papers impatiently. "We could go on all day about what-ifs. As long as nothing too strange or out-of-the-ordinary happens, I'm sure you'll be alive and well for the start of school."

"How sure?" Harry asked, still wavering.

"84 percent," Snape replied without hesitation.

That was hardly comforting, but Harry knew it was the best that he would get. He looked at the bottom of the contract. There were two lines. Severus Augustus Snape was written on the top line. Taking a deep breath, Harry scribbled Harry James Potter on the second line. Snape touched the papers with his wand, and they all disappeared.

"Don't they have to be witnessed?" Harry ventured, remembering a Muggle movie he had seen once with some legal stuff in it.

"No, both the signatures have our magic in them," Snape reached for another paper on the table.

"So that's it?" Harry said slowly. "I'm stuck here for the rest of the summer with you. What would happen if I ran out the door and off the property?"

"I would go after you and pull you back by the root of your hair," Snape said absentmindedly as he glanced over the new paper.

"No, I meant magically."

"Nothing, not until I put up the wards around the house and grounds."

"And then what would happen?" Harry pressed.

"Potter, stop asking so many questions. Why this, how that – you're worse than a toddler."

Harry huffed and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. An awful thought crossed his mind – now that Snape was his guardian maybe he could make Harry obey and do what he said with magic. Simply say, "Behave," and Harry couldn't misbehave. Like that version of Cinderella Harry had read years ago where the girl had to be obedient no matter what she was told to do.

Snape sighed. "Whatever you are thinking, I assure you that it cannot be as bad as you are imagining it. Now, look at this paper."

Harry deliberately looked away for a few seconds, just to test if he still had freewill. Nothing happened – he felt the same, so he glanced over the sheet and read _7:00 Wake up, bathe, dress, tidy up – 8:00 Breakfast – 8:30 Brisk walk_ . . .

"What kind of a schedule is this?" Harry demanded. "You want me to study and read and go to bed at ten every day? It's summertime!"

"I'm perfectly aware of what season it is," Snape began calmly, but Harry cut him off.

"No, I'm not agreeing to this. I'm on a schedule all year at school."

"Which you manage to break numerous times."

"I answer to ringing bells for nine months," Harry persisted. "Go to class, go to eat, go to bed, go to detention. I'm not doing that schedule."

"Potter, this is not up for debate."

"I know what will happen," Harry shot back. "I won't be able to follow that schedule perfectly, and you'll sneer at me all summer, saying how I can't obey the rules and how like my father I am and how you can't believe you have to put up with such despicable students. So I'm saying no now."

Harry sat there, arms still crossed and fuming. He was not letting Snape boss him around all summer and then get to do it in the school year as well.

Snape's eyes glinted dangerously. "Potter," he said severely, "you've been yelling at me all morning, and I've had it with your attitude. Take a timeout, and go stand in the corner until you've calmed down."

The color drained from Harry's face as he stared open-mouthed at Snape. The man was not serious.

"Now, Potter!" Snape ordered. "Go put your nose in the corner until I tell you to come back. Go – do not make me tell you again, or you'll take a smarting behind with you."

Furious, Harry stood up and yanked his chair back. He stomped loudly to the one empty corner in the room and stood in it, seething with anger and muttering, "Ugly, sodding –"

"No talking while you're in the corner," Snape commanded. "I'm not putting up with childish tantrums all summer. So help me, you'll learn to control yourself by September if it's the last thing I do. Now, you stand there for a while and think about how to control your temper."

Harry wanted nothing more than to stalk back to the table and punch Snape right in the nose. Breathing through clenched teeth, Harry ball his hands into fists and glared at the brown wooden walls of the corner. He was not enduring this for the next seven weeks. Seven weeks? Was it really that long? That was forty-nine days, forty-nine days stuck with Snape and that blasted schedule. The man was going to pay.

Twenty minutes later, Harry felt more bored than he had ever been in his life. His legs were getting tired of standing, doing nothing. Death by boredom – that sounded fun. Harry tried his very hardest to stay mad at Snape, but the time spent at Snapdragon Manor seemed to eat away at his loathing for the man. Harry no longer felt uncontrollable rage at his potions master. Instead, Snape had made him feel like a naughty child who needed to be minded and cared for, not to be trusted alone or unsupervised. The fact that Harry was standing in the corner at the moment did not help lessen this feeling. Harry was ready and willing to go back to the table and show Snape that he could act like an adult.

He could hear Snape taking a second cup of tea. One of the house elves came in to clear the table.

"Master Snape, I comes to clear the table," Harry heard the house elf squeaked. "Is you and Mr. Potter finished?"

"Yes, clear the plates, but leave the tea things," Snape directed.

"Is Mr. Potter needing anything?" the house elf timidly asked.

"Mr. Potter is standing in the corner until he can behave himself," Snape replied. "And knowing our young houseguest, he'll be spending a lot of time there." Snape smirked when he saw Harry shifting, almost stomping his foot. "Yes, Nabby, I think it might even be a good idea to carve Mr. Potter's name over that corner so he'll know his place when he misbehaves."

"No, it's not!" Harry insisted, still facing the corner. He expected Snape to order him to be quiet or tell Nabby to start carving because Potter would be living in that corner for the next seven weeks. However, all Snape said was,

"Are you ready to act your age, or do you need more time there?"

Harry whirled from the corner and walked back to the table. "I'll act my age, though I still don't want to follow a schedule."

"You would do well to get ahead on your studies. The Sixth year is quite challenging, and there is no reason you can't start off the school year well prepared and well read."

"But Hermione –"

"Miss Granger has a talent for remembering books, but there's no reason you can't learn just as much. While she was reading or studying at night, I'm sure you were fooling around with Mr. Weasley or another one of your simple friends. I don't see why you cannot return to school as ready as Miss Granger. Maybe then you can answer a few questions in class instead of pretending to be invisible."

Snape made sense, but Harry would rather sit and sulk than admit that the potions master might know what he was talking about.

"As for meals and bedtimes, do you really expect to grow taller as long as you pick at healthy food, load up on sugar, and never get any rest? I saw you yawning in class several times this past year, and once you nearly fell asleep. Am I right?"

"Well, sometimes I can't sleep at night," Harry mumbled. "And I eat when I get hungry, and everyone at school gets to eat candy without professors griping at them."

"Who says I don't gripe at other students for eating too much candy?" Snape asked, raising his eyebrows. "If it were my choice, there would be no trips to Hogsmeade at all. And without extra sugar, you'll soon adapt to going to sleep at a reasonable time and waking up early. It might even help your surly attitude. As for your schedule, I will post one copy in your bedroom and one in the library. It would behoove you to memorize the schedule as you will be accountable for sticking to it. We'll talk more about the consequences of disobedience at lunch, and then you can get started on the essay I assigned the other day. Right now, I see that it's almost nine and you're supposed to be outside walking. Move!"

Somehow, Harry found himself wrapped in the green cloak and in the garden before he could object.

"Start down the path," Snape pointed down the gravel walk. "It's a loop around the house. Even if you walk slowly, you'll be back here in time for studying at ten-thirty. Stay on the gravel path."

Snape went back inside and slammed the door. Harry stared at the closed door in bewilderment. Three days at Snape's home, and Harry had been spanked twice, caught fire, gotten a new guardian, been put on a strict schedule, and stood in the corner for half an hour. And now he still had to write that stupid essay. Unbelievable.

For all his snide remarks about being bothered by students and Harry especially, Snape was a very hands-on kind of person. Harry was certain that Snape was going to be quite up-close and personal with his new ward in the following weeks, not letting anything slip by. That certainty both worried and calmed Harry – the thought that someone might be there through good and bad, ready to handout rules and sarcasm at any given moment, never leaving Harry in any doubt as to how his behavior was seen by Snape and how the man planned to deal with him.

A few hundred feet down the garden, a bark path turned off the gravel and headed off into the woods, turning right while the gravel path veered left. Harry glanced back at the manor and then at both paths. To loop around the house, he would need to take the bark path. Besides, the gravel path stopped up ahead at a birdfeeder. Maybe if Snape got out of his potions lab once in a while, he would know how to navigate around his own property, Harry snidely thought as he meandered down the bark path. He grinned at the thought of Snape wandering aimlessly and lost over his own property, wondering how to get back to the house. Then Harry sobered as his thoughts drifted back to the conversation at the breakfast table.

There were butterflies in his stomach as he walked on, past the neat gardens and on into the green woods. How would he feel at the end of summer if he followed Snape's schedules? Confident? Ready to take on classes and show Hermione up? He could imagine her face when he raised his hand first to answer a question and earned points for Gryffindor when he had the right answer. When she turned startled eyes on him, he would say casually, "What? Oh, yeah, I did a little light studying this summer, nothing too much, you know." And Ron would smirk because someone finally knew more about books than Hermione.

And what would Ron think about Snape as a guardian? Harry could picture Ron's look of horror and disgust, then the overwhelming pity. "You poor bloke," Ron would shake his head, "seems like they're doing all they can to bump you off. The whole summer with that greasy git? Does Dumbledore want you to have nervous breakdown or go balmy?"

He should owl Ron. Surely, Snape wouldn't mind if he corresponded with his friends as long as Harry wasn't planning on escaping. He would have to ask for permission, but he could imagine Snape's reply: "You want to write your friends? Are you actually thinking that they are intelligent enough to read your letter and respond? You are delusional." Still, Snape would let him, wouldn't he? He wouldn't make Harry go all summer without talking to his friends. The Dursleys would, but Snape wasn't quite as evil as the Dursleys because he had helped Harry with the fireplace curse and the Dursleys would just lock him up. Maybe if he asked Snape with politeness and respect. The man's words were always caustic, but he would probably agree eventually if somewhat reluctantly.

But no, timeturners first. Harry had prior plans that did not include studying all summer and owling friends. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate on his earlier intentions. Snape must be putting something in his food.

The trail seemed to go on forever, around one bend and another. After a while Harry wondered if he should turn back or if it were quicker to keep going. He had no watch or anyway of keeping track of time. After trudging to the top of a hill and finding that the path just went down before going up another hill, Harry gave up and flung himself to sit by a tree. He leaned a back against the trunk and put a hand on each bent knee. He was a little tired from the trauma of the last few days. Why had Snape made him take such a long walk when Harry wasn't fully recovered? Shouldn't Snape have realized that he was still tired? Or was Snape hoping Harry would collapse on his walk?

Harry almost snorted at his own thoughts. He was wondering why Snape didn't fuss over his ward's delicate state? The same teacher who enjoyed seeing Harry suffer and squirm in class, happy to have him peeling something slimy and disgusting for hours? But it had been nice yesterday when Snape had acted so concerned but confident that he could help Harry. And the feel of the man's hand on his forehead and taking his pulse – actually touching Harry and not drawing back with repulsion. Not many people ever wanted to make physical contact with him, acting as if he were dangerously contagious or about to explode. Even Madame Pomfrey made her inspections quick and with as little touch as possible.

In the shade of the tree, Harry closed his eyes and tried to remember his dream. He liked the way James had thrown his arm around his shoulders, pulling Harry against him hard, confident that Harry could take a little roughness. Some fathers were very physical with their children – hugs, wrestling, lights punches on the shoulder, tousling their hair, even tickling them until the children squealed for mercy. Harry had seen such parents with their children: holding them, cuddling them when they cried, laughing, talking about silly stuff, buying them treats, and threatening to punish them if they didn't behave.

He would never have any of that, Harry realized, opening his eyes and plucking carelessly at a blade of grass. He would never have a mother to tuck him in at night or a father to lecture him about his attitude or praise him for raising his grades. Harry had hoped that he would not care about being an orphan as he grew older – that it would not matter so much that he was alone because adults were supposed to stand on their own two feet without any help. A part of him felt stupid and childish for wanting parents – most kids his age wanted to get away from their parents and live their own lives with freedom. Usually, Harry managed to convince himself that he was better off without parents to fuss and coddle him, considering that he didn't like teachers to do that. But he knew that now more than ever, he wanted a family. Instead he had cold relatives and an irate potions master for a temporary guardian.

A twig snapped, and Harry glanced up. His heart started thudding frantically as he saw said irate potions master marching up the hill, his black robes billowing menacingly. The look on his face made one thing quite clear – Snape was not at all happy with his new ward.

Harry sprung to his feet. Should he rush down to meet Snape halfway or wait for Snape to get up to him? Go or stay, go or stay? Harry took a half step forward and then thought better of it. No reason to meet fury head-on.

As Snape drew close, Harry could see that the man had a copy of the schedule in one hand and his wand clutched tightly in the other. This was not looking good at all.


	7. Discussion on Disobedience

Snape marched to the top of the hill and stood glaring at his new ward with fury not to be described by words. Harry shrank back, wondering if he should make a run for it. He was fairly tired, but he thought he still might be able to outrun Snape if he tried hard enough. Besides, Harry was wearing long trousers and a loose shirt under his cape while Snape was in his billowing robes.

Harry made a motion to turn, and Snape bellowed, "Potter, if you so much as take one step backwards, I will hex you into a tree and leave you there until you turn twenty!"

Harry turned back reluctantly. He didn't really believe that Snape would leave him for the next four years, but he had no doubt that the stern teacher would hex him. Whether Snape meant to turn Harry into a tree or simply trap him inside a tree, Harry was not eager to find out.

"What time is it?" Snape demanded.

"I dunno, sir," Harry shrugged. "I don't have a watch."

"Did you think to ask for a watch now that you will be following a schedule?"

"No, but you didn't give me one," Harry protested.

"I thought you might be responsible enough to discern your own needs without me taking care of every little thing. I see I was sorely mistaken."

Harry crossed his arms and wondered what would happen if he grabbed Snape's wand and hex _him_ into a tree.

"Before you left, I told you to stay on the gravel path. Did you hear me?"

"Yes, but it looked like it ended at the bird feeder thingy," Harry pointed out.

Snape almost rolled his eyes. "If you had walked farther up, you would have seen that the path turned sharply to the left after the feeder. The gravel path makes about a half-mile loop in front of the house through the gardens. This bark path goes back into the acres behind the house. It eventually leads back home, but the path is nearly sixteen miles long. You have traveled over four miles – did you not think that you had been going a long ways and should be reaching the house before now?"

It was so unfair; Harry wanted to scream in frustration. Snape was just playing mind games with him again. The man made it so Harry was always in the wrong – Snape deliberately saw to it that Harry was as uncomfortable, awkward, and unhappy as he could possibly be, and Snape enjoyed every second of Harry's misery.

"There's a dirt path that turns off the bark path up ahead," Snape added. "If you had taken it, it would have ended at Malfoy Manor!"

Harry blinked. "You live next to Malfoy Manor?"

"If by next to, you mean fourteen miles apart, then yes, I do," Snape snapped. "And next time I tell you something about the house or the grounds, listen to me! It's past eleven o'clock, and you've missed half your study time." Snape shoved the schedule in his robe pocket and tucked his wand away. He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and pulled him close. "Hold still."

Harry wanted to yank back, he didn't like standing so close, but Snape's grip was unrelenting. Then they both Apparated with a crack.

Harry did not like this feeling either – it was worse than traveling by portkey, sudden and loud with a yanking sensation that made every muscle in his body jerk. Snape let go of him as soon as they landed, and Harry fell back to the soft ground with an _umph_. He glanced around; they were in the main garden, the house only a few hundred feet away. Snape swooped down and pulled Harry up by an arm. Once he made sure the boy was on his feet, Snape latched onto his ear and began dragging him towards the manor.

"Ow! But I thought the other path stopped," Harry protested, jogging along so Snape wouldn't pull off his ear completely.

"You knew exactly what I said," Snape continued walking, his grip vice-like around Harry's ear. "You thought you knew better so you decided to take your own route and ignore my directions. Typical Potter behavior – he thinks knows more than anyone else does. I thought we had been through this conversation before, but obviously the message didn't sink in."

"No, no," Harry quickly replied, his voice perfectly respectful. "I was confused, that's all – I didn't think that you were wrong. I promise next time I'll stay on the gravel path, even if I think it's not going anywhere."

They reached the door, and Snape let go of his ear. Harry barely had time to rub it before Snape grabbed him by the shoulder and propelled him towards the library.

"Not one more word out of you, Potter," the potions master ordered. "Sit down at the desk and start writing that essay. I better not hear a peep from you until lunchtime, or so help me –" Snape glared at him threateningly and then stalked away, closing the door behind him loudly.

Harry shakily sat down at the small desk and reached for the parchment paper and a quill. That had been close – too close for comfort. He needed to survive if he were ever to bring Sirius and Cedric back, and irritating Snape was not helping. Just do what he says, Harry thought as he unrolled the parchment and placed the inkstand at the top to keep the paper from rolling back. Do what he says, and when he gets used to you, then get out of here.

As usual as soon as he looked at the blank parchment, he could not think of anything to write. It annoyed him at school when they sat down to write and Hermione began scratching off words right away as if they were longing to leap from her fingers onto the page. She would start scribbling, and she could ignore everyone in the room as she wrote and wrote and went back to change a word and reconsidered the ending, all with an intense look on her face. Harry tried to keep focused as he sat beside her, but he always got distracted by Ron's fiddling with his books or Dean Thomas talking about the last Quidditch game. And then Harry wanted to join in and ask about the Ravenclaw's seeker or the Hufflepuff's beater. And next thing he knew, it was very late, and the prefects were hustling everyone off to bed.

But here was different. No distractions in the quiet library, no one to talk to, nothing to disturb him. And he had absolutely nothing to say.

'How to show the proper respect and obedience towards one's elders.' At least, he thought that was the assignment. Close enough, he hoped. Respect, proper respect. Like the muggle song – R-E-S-P-E-C-T, just a little bit, just a little bit.

He hummed the tune under his breath as he jotted a few words down. What if he started singing that in front of Snape? The potions master would think he'd gone mad. R-E-S-P-E –

No, concentrate! Don't sing; write!

Harry glanced down at the paper to see what he had written. _Proper respect and obedience is needed if_ – if what? If you want to be miserable twenty-four hours a day? If you want to have no fun and be bored out of your mind? . . _. if one wishes to grow up to be a law-abiding_ (yeah, right or a Death Eater), _respectable_ (or nasty) _wizard or witch_ (or hated professor).

There, a sentence. A whole sentence that took up one line. He still had two feet, eleven inches left to go. He tried to think of all the lectures McGonagall had given him about following the rules and staying in line. He had tuned most of them out, more eager to daydream over the upcoming Quidditch match than pay attention to her scolding. Maybe listening should be in the essay – something about attentiveness when adults are talking?

Harry had barely reached half a foot of parchment when he heard a small crack, and a house elf appeared in front of the desk.

"Yes?" Harry asked. He was just getting into the swing of writing, and he did not like interruption.

"Master Snape says that Mr. Potter will come for lunch," the house elf squeaked.

"What? It can't be time already," Harry objected. "I just got started."

"Master Snape also asks that Mr. Potter bring his essay with him," the house elf continued as if she had not heard Harry.

"But I'm not finished. I only had about an hour. I still have two and a half feet left."

The house elf looked nervous and uncertain. Finally, she said, "Mr. Potter will tell Master Snape that at lunch, and Master Snape will deal with him."

"Great," Harry placed the quill back on the inkstand and followed the house elf to the dining room.

Snape was already seated at the table, perusing through a handful of letters. He glanced up as Harry made his way to the table. "Where's your essay?"

"I didn't finish it. You didn't give me enough time. I don't write very fast."

"You don't do many things very fast, Mr. Potter," Snape commented dryly. "Why should I be surprised that writing is one of them? Stop sulking, and sit down."

A gold pocketwatch lay beside Harry’s plate. Snape nodded towards it.

"Maybe that will help keep you on track, Potter, though I doubt it. Try not to lose or break it the first hour, will you?"

The meal was good, and Harry paid special attention to his manners. Napkin in his lap, sit up straight, no sloppiness for Snape to criticize. The glass in front of him held a dark red liquid that Harry thought could be wine or cranberry juice. He tasted it, sure that Snape would never let him have wine. It was close to cranberry, but more raspberry mixed with apple and another flavor that Harry did not recognize. Something tart, but still sweet with an aftertaste of blueberry, maybe?

Harry glanced up suddenly. "Did you put a potion in here?" he asked. This was typical Snape behavior, slipping people potions when they least expected it. Especially after that conversation in fourth year when Snape as good as promised to slip Veritaserum into Harry's pumpkin juice.

"Please, Potter," Snape sighed, "if I wanted you to take a potion, I would hand it to you in a vial and savor watching you choke it down. Most potions don't work mixed in with another drink. The fruit blend you're enjoying would render even the simplest potions ineffective."

Harry tilted his glass slightly, watching the juice slosh slightly against the edge. "Why can't you add a little flavor to potions? Why do they have to taste so bad?"

Snape sighed as he put down his own cup.

"I know you've probably told us a thousand times in class," Harry added, rightly guessing Snape's thoughts, "but I'm asking again."

"As I attempted to tell you all the first day of class," Snape put on his lecture face that he usual wore while teaching potions to a bunch of idiots, "potions are delicate, temperamental substances. It's not like baking cookies where even if you add a little too much butter or not enough flour, they'll come out right. You can't just start lumping ingredients together and hope they do what they're supposed to. If you add a twentieth of a teaspoon too much, the entire potion can be ruined."

Harry opened his mouth to object, to insist that potions should not be so particular, but Snape shook his head.

"All right, Potter, pretend that you're flying towards the snitch straight on. A little faster, and you'll catch it in the next twenty feet. Suddenly, the snitch veers two inches to the right. If you don't change your direction towards the little blighter, you'll miss it altogether once you go twenty feet. Potions are like the same thing. Understand?"

"Well, if potions are so hard to get right, why do you get angry when we get it wrong in class?" Harry asked, a bit shortly. "You blame us for not getting it right, and you just said it's nearly impossible not to mess up."

Snape set down his fork with a decided clink. "Potter, how old are you?"

Harry flushed. He did not want to play mind games. "You know how old –"

"Just answer the question."

"Fine, I turn sixteen in three weeks."

"And," Snape continued without any expression, "how many years have you been attending Hogwarts?"

"Five, but I don't see –"

"And in those five years, how many of them have you taken potions?"

"All of them, but –"

"So you've attended probably three hundred potions classes? Fair estimate?"

Had it really been that many? Harry quickly added up in his head. At least twice a week, nine months out of the year, five years. "That's about right," he admitted.

"And in those classes, how many of them would you say you came to class having read the reading requirements?"

Harry could feel his cheeks turning redder. "Uh –"

"Every class?" Snape gave him a searching look that made Harry squirm. "Once a week?"

Harry looked away, shifting in his chair.

"Once a _month_? Once every two months? Oh, come on, Potter, lie if you have to! Did you ever prepare for my class?"

"Yes, I know I read the stuff at least four different times," Harry insisted.

Snape's silence felt ominous in the dining room, and Harry's insides kept twisting uneasily. Harry avoided Snape's piercing gaze by staring at the table as the silence wore on.

"I was busy," Harry finally broke the stillness. "I have other classes and –"

"And Quidditch, and fooling around with friends, and wandering at night," the potions master frowned. "I know Miss Granger showed up to every class having read what she was supposed to and still managed to attend Quidditch games and keep friends. You spend nine months out of the year where? At Hogwarts amusement park? At Hogwarts daycare center? No, at Hogwarts _school_."

Harry scowled and pushed his nearly empty plate away.

"As for getting potions right, do you really expect to be able to waltz into a lab and start throwing things together and have it come out right with no practice, no knowledge of the subject? It's nothing short of a miracle that you children don't blow up my classroom. If I had my way, no one under the age of fifteen would be allowed in the potions lab. Until you understand how dangerous some of the substances are, you shouldn't be fooling around in there."

"I'm sorry I asked," Harry retorted. "Next time I have a question, I'll look up the answer and not listen to a ten-minute lecture."

"You're impossible," Snape shook his head, returning to his lunch. "I offer a little constructive criticism –"

"Constructive?" Harry almost yelled. "There's nothing constructive about it. It's you listing everything I do wrong, knowing I can't do anything because I'm in your house with your rules."

"What do you think I want you to do next year? Hmm, Potter?"

"Study more for classes and stop playing around," Harry muttered.

"And if you do that, I might think that you changed your abysmal behavior thanks to my lecturing. Therefore, something good will have come out of it."

Harry slumped back in his chair in defeat. The man had a blasted answer for everything. Besides, he didn't want Snape to make sense. He like the man to hand out scathing insults just to be spiteful. Then it was easier to dislike him.

"If I finish my essay this afternoon, can I walk around the manor later during 'free time'?" Harry asked after a few minutes of silence.

"You want to start exploring?" Snape lifted an eyebrow, indicating that he was thinking of another word.

"No, I'm not going to snoop," Harry insisted. "Just look around. I used to walk around Hogwarts to see at the pictures and different rooms. I've never been in another wizard's house besides the Weasleys’, oh, and Sirius's place." A shadow passed over Harry's face, and Snape quickly replied,

"Fine you may look around, but I have two rules. One, you stay on the first and second floors. No snooping around the dungeon or the towers. Two, any door that is closed you don't go in. Understand?"

Harry wanted to argue. He planned to go over every inch of the manor until he found his wand and cloak, but there was no use in telling Snape that. Snape would probably lock him in his room if he had any suspicions about what his young ward was going to do.

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded.

"Now that we've finished discussing potions and exploring, perhaps you'd like to revisit the subject of your schedule. I trust I'll have no more outbursts from you unless you'd rather be further acquainted with the corner?"

"No," Harry glared at his professor, but did not say anything else.

"Good boy. I have looked over the schedule one last time and have come to the conclusion that nothing needs to be changed. I hope you've reached the same agreement. If not I can always add more studying and earlier bedtimes."

"It's fine the way it is," Harry assured him. He wished the man would just simply hand him the paper and say "Here's the schedule – deal with it, Potter." This talking-through-stuff annoyed Harry more than the schedule itself. Discussing things made Snape seem more human, and Harry would rather he stay the mean, evil bat that Snape had always been.

"I thought about the consequences of disobedience," Snape continued, oblivious to Harry's thoughts. "Now, ideally, I would like to assume that there is no need for punishments because you won't disobey at all, but we both know that is foolish thinking."

It was so hard not to pout. Harry could feel his bottom lip longing to stink out in an angry, sulky pout, but he pressed his lips hard together to resist the temptation. He would not give Snape the satisfaction.

"Now, believe it or not," the man took a sip of tea, "I think there are varying degrees of disobedience. First, there is ignorance – simply not knowing the rules. That will seldom require anything past my informing you of the rules in hopes that you will follow them. Next are everyday mistakes – little things that could turn into problems if not nipped in the bud. They will likely warrant no more than a lecture. Next, come attitude and words – this includes swearing, rebellious looks, and your favorite pastime – sulking. Depending on the range of your attitude, I may give you a timeout or send you to your room. Swearing, however, gets your mouth washed out with soap. Fourthly, is outright disobedience. You were told to do or not to do something, and you did the opposite, knowing full-well you were disobeying. That will earn you the worst punishments. Do you have any questions?

_Yes,_ Harry wanted to scream _, what are the worst punishments?_ But he had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what those punishments would be. He shook his head, saying "No, sir, but if I do, can I ask you later?"

"All right," Snape agreed, "but the rules apply from this moment on. If I catch you defying me or ignoring my words again –"

If Harry had his way, Snape would not catch him at anything ever again. First chance he got, Harry was out of there.

"Then, if you're finished, why don't you go work on that essay in your room?" Snape nodded towards the door.

Between finishing the essay, reading some of an old History of Magic book, and supper, Harry did not have time to explore the manor at all. He was on his bed putting the final touches on the paper when Snape came up to his room.

"It's quarter to ten, Potter," the potions master announced. "Surely, you finished the essay by now."

Harry handed the paper over without a word. He hoped Snape would tuck it away for future reading and leave, but of course, the man began reading it while standing in the middle of the room.

Harry shifted awkwardly. Could he leave, or should he stand at attention while Snape read? It was really unfair – probably no one else in whole world had to write essays as punishments over the summer. Ugly, greasy –

"Mr. Potter?" Snape's voice was stern.

"Yes, sir?" Harry sprung to his feet.

"I believe I also asked for a list of appropriate punishments along with the essay."

Harry was ready for that. "Yes, sir, but we discussed at lunch punishments, so I thought we had covered that aspect. However," he hurried on before Snape could disagree, "I would be happy to recite your exact words from lunch to prove that I've been listening, which was one of my points in the essay."

"As much as I would like for you to turn into a parrot," Snape intoned, "that won't be necessary. Tomorrow, you'll have an oral quiz. I hope if I keep your thoughts on the consequences of disobedience, it will deter you from the actual act. Go get ready for bed."

"But I'm not tired," Harry complained, swinging his legs on the bed and jumping down. "I'll never go to sleep at ten o'clock." He expected Snape to remind him that twenty-four hours ago Harry had burst into flames and that he probably needed his rest, but Snape only snapped,

"Potter, bed! Now!"

It was weird trudging off to the bathroom to get ready and coming back and climbing into bed with Snape standing watch like a stone statute. This was the fourth night Harry had spent at Snapdragon Manor, but the other nights he had been distracted by emotions or his rising temperature. Now, Harry felt neither distraught nor sick, but young and childish, like a little boy about to be tucked in for the night. It was unsettling to lie back on the pillows and pull the covers up while Snape spelled his dirty clothes over into a nearby hamper. At this rate, Harry thought he should be clutching a teddy bear and sucking on his thumb, waiting for a lullaby to soothe him to sleep. He doubted Snape would oblige.

"All right," Snape crossed his arms, "when discussing the terms of guardianship, the headmaster made me promise to talk to you about your – your feelings," the word seemed stuck in Snape's throat for a moment, and the man didn't like the taste of the word. "Though I feel I've seen enough of your emotions to last three lifetimes, I will follow through with my promise. How are you feeling tonight?"

The tone was so clipped that Harry blinked for a moment before answering, "Oh, all right, I guess."

"Do you feel sad, unhappy, angry, or otherwise upset?" Snape prompted, barely keeping from rolling his eyes.

"Er – not really," Harry wasn't sure if he should look at the man or at something else. He was not used to answering these sorts of questions, nor did Snape look used to asking them.

"Then, I can assume for the time being that you are calm and should fall asleep with no problem?" Snape continued, his arms still crossed.

"Sure," Harry hazarded a response. He wasn't going exploring tonight. That would have to wait until morning.

"Then good night, Potter. If I catch you out of bed, you'll pay for both ignoring the rules and for lying." With those comforting words, Snape swept out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Harry stared up into the dark ceiling. This was getting to be quite an odd place he found himself in. Snape pretending to care about how he felt? Definitely uncharted territory. All these rules, and restrictions, and consequences . . . at this rate he would be answering to a whistle like those seven children in the movie where everyone burst periodically into song.

Partly wishing that Snape would not turn back to his evil self and partly hoping that the potions master would jump in a lake and drown, Harry snuggled deeper into his bed. Sometime later, he thought he heard the door open to his room and he was sure that he opened his eyes to see Snape standing over his bed and tucking the covers around his shoulder, but Harry was certain he was dreaming. He closed his eyes again in hopes that he might drift off into the dream of the other night with James talking to him about flying.

HP&HP&HP

The next morning, Harry did stay on the gravel path and found that instead of a tiring hike up and down the hills the gravel path wound through cool gardens with plenty of places to sit and enjoy the scenery. Unlike the bark path, the gravel path seemed enchanted; Harry was certain the house was right behind him, but when he stepped through a stone arch, the manor was in front of him. Up ahead, a waterfall splashed down into a small pond, and Harry leaned over the rippling water to catch sight of orange and silver fish dodging around lily pads. In one corner, a tangle of red roses climbed up a high wall, reaching higher and higher against the blue sky.

Farther up the path, the gravel turned into round stones. When Harry stepped on the first round stone, little squirts of water jumped from the sides of the path. He stepped out of the way only to see more squirts coming towards him. Apparently, you were supposed to avoid getting hit by water by dodging and jumping and ducking. Though Harry knew it was a very simplistic game, he couldn't help playing along for a few moments. The water was tricky, though, and Harry got hit in the face more than he would care to admit.

A few hundred feet farther, Harry saw a small boat tied to the dock. The pond opened up to a lake, and Harry could make out a few gray ducks quacking on the other side. Maybe Snape would let him go out rowing, and Harry could feed the ducks while he was over there. For now, he amused himself by skipping flat rocks on the surface of the lake while several turtles looked on, unimpressed.

Though Harry hated to admit it, the gravel path was a lot more fun than the bark. If you were going a three-hour hike, then sure, take the bark through the woods. A morning walk, enjoying the outdoors, stay on the gravel.

Harry tiptoed down the hallway. It was his free time in the afternoon, but he still felt odd exploring the manor without Snape. The portraits were looking down at him, silence but disapproving, and Harry was sure he heard one say, "Sneaky looks, that one."

Most of the doors were open upstairs, and Harry peeked in, but didn't venture in. Snape would not have hidden his ward's things in plain sight. Harry had gone down the halls and seen mainly bedrooms and sitting room. Two doors were closed on one hallway, but he guessed those were Snape's bedroom and dressing room. Though Snape might have hidden the wand and cape in his own bedroom, Harry knew he would only sneak in there as a last result. Somehow, snooping around Snape's bedroom seemed worse than peering into his pensive.

Downstairs was different story. Most of the doors were shut, and Harry tested the knobs on each. They were all locked – apparently Snape didn't trust his ward to obey the rules, which wasn't such a mean suspicion on Snape's part all things considered. The last shut door at the end of the hall did open, and Harry eagerly peeked inside.

It was dim, but he could make out shelves lining all the walls. Harry pushed the door open for a better look. It was a store of potions, hundreds of bottles, all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some were labeled, some weren't. Some looked like cooking spices, some Harry didn't want to look at for more than a second. The room had a dusty smell to it, but it looked clean and well-kept. Half a dozen clean cauldrons were lined up on wooden table. Cutting, crushing, and stirring utensils were also lined up in a straight row on the table.

It was exactly what Snape's private store should look like, all neat and efficient, ready to be used correctly. Harry thought about his own untidy possessions, usually strewn around the room or dumped in an open trunk. Like the library, Snape enjoyed order when it came to his things. No random selection, no carelessness – everything in its rightful place.

Harry was about to leave the potions store when he noticed a blur of color on the top shelf in one corner. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was some kind of fabric folded up. Bright colors, hanging tassels – it was his Invisibility Cloak! He had found it.

Tingling with excitement, Harry glanced around for a ladder. The top shelf was at least four feet beyond Harry's reach, and while Snape was taller, Harry knew the man couldn't reach the shelf unaided. But he saw no ladder, not even a small one with a step or two. There was a small stool nearby, and Harry hastily pulled it over.

Once standing on the stool, he strained to reach the top shelf. His fingertips did not even brush the edge. Glancing over his shoulder, Harry made a quick decision. He needed the cloak, and it was his, and Snape probably wouldn't notice it was gone.

Harry put his foot on the next highest shelf past the stool and pulled himself up. With his right hand, he grabbed the cloak and pulled it down.

A moment later, he realized with a thud of disappointment that this cloak was not his cloak. It was about the same size, but the colors and shapes were wrong. He hastily folded it and reached to put it back on the shelf. He would put the stool back as well and close the door, and Snape would never know he had been there.

Something groaned loudly. Harry glanced anxiously towards the door. No one was there. The groan sounded again, and he glanced back at the shelves. Just about at his eye level, he could see the head of a nail burrowing into farther into the wood. That was odd.

Then he realized the shelf was pulling away from the wall, and all the nails were groaning as they slipped down into the wood.

A bottle marked _toad's eyes_ slipped off the shelf and fell to the ground with a crash. Harry looked down to see round, slimy eyes mixed with broken glass scattered across the bare floor.

Then he felt himself going backwards as the entire shelves and the boards that held them to the wall began falling forward. Harry leapt back off the lower shelf, missing the stool by a mere inch, and ran to the door for dear life. He made it just in time as all the shelves and their contents hit the floor.

Harry dashed into the hallway to the sound of smashing glass and water bursting from containers.

Then he heard a loud explosion rip through the air. The door behind him was blown off its hinges, and he covered his ringing ears. A moment of silence hung in the air along with the strong smell of sulfur and formaldehyde.

And then Harry heard the other shelves break away from the walls. The wood was crashing down like a hundred trees in a landslide – glass kept breaking, and Harry could see shards of it skidding onto the floor of the hall.

Then everything was quiet again, save for the dripping of liquid from broken bottles.


	8. Cleaning Up

Harry stood frozen for a few awful seconds, hearing his pulse pound in his ears heavily. He was dead.

Snape was going to murder him. Snape was going to tear him into pieces. Forget looking into the man's Pensieve, stealing from the man's private store at Hogwarts, and being disrespectful in class; forget barging into his house; forget ignoring Snape's instruction – forget it all. This was the worst thing Harry could possibly do next to burning down the whole house. After Snape was finished with him, facing Voldemort would feel like an afternoon picnic.

The portraits were all talking fervently to each other, and Harry knew it was only a matter of time before Snape came billowing down the hallway and demanded to know what had happened. Harry heard a step at the far end of the hallway. And then he lost it completely. Harry ran up the other side of the hallway, ignoring the shouts of the portraits to stay where he was so the master could deal with him.

Heart racing, Harry ducked into an open door. It was the sitting room where he had first arrived in the cursed fireplace. Oh, now that curse was nothing compared to what Snape would do.

If he could just find some Floo powder, Harry could try to get out of the house. Not forever, just long enough for Snape to calm down and realize that his intrusive houseguest did not mean to blow up his potions lab. Harry began searching the various boxes and vases on the shelf over the fireplace. No one had used the fireplace as a part of the Floo network in years, but Harry was too distraught to think rationally.

" _Harry James Potter_!" Snape's voice roared in the hallway. "Where are you? Show yourself this minute!"

"He went into the parlor," a portrait called out helpfully.

In the midst of his terror, Harry's one coherent thought was that he was going to tear that portrait to pieces if he survived Snape's wrath.

"Thank you," Snape's angry voice was drawing nearer.

Harry felt panic surge through his body, and he could not remember a time when he felt more terrified. Even the battle in the Ministry of Magic paled in comparison. He did only the thing that seemed appropriate in a situation like this – he hid. Later on, he might admit that it was a silly, childish thing to do, but for now it seemed the only option. He scrambled over to sofa and crouched behind it against the wall, wrapping his arms around his knees and waiting fearfully.

Yes, he was hidden for now. Maybe he could hide for the next few days. Snapdragon Manor was big, and he was sure to find dozens of places to hide whenever he heard Snape approaching. Harry had learned to hide from Dudley for ten years; this wouldn't be much different except that Snape would hex him whereas Dudley enjoyed punching.

Angry footsteps stomped into the sitting room. Harry tried to stay very still and quiet, taking soft breaths that he hoped Snape could not hear. Don't move, don't squirm, just stay quiet.

"I know you're in here, Potter," Snape's voice was hard as nails and cold as ice. "The portraits said you came this way, and there's no way out from this room. Come out from wherever you're hiding, and I mean it now."

Did Snape ever not mean anything he said? Harry would have to ask him why he insisted on ending every speech with the statement that he meant what he said. Provided, of course, that Harry lived long enough to do that.

"Potter, I'm serious," Snape's tone took on a deadly edge. "I'm counting to three, and you better come or so help me, you'll find yourself doing detention with me every night of the school year. _One_ – detention for three hours every night. _Two_ – and I may see if you can have detention in every spare hour you have at school. _Thr_ –"

"All right," Harry leapt out from his hiding place. "I'm here, but it was an accident, I swear. I didn't – ow!"

Snape had reached out and grabbed Harry by the ear. The man looked livid, angrier than Harry had seen him before, including the time when Black had been set free in the third year along with Buckbeak.

"I am going to ask you a few simple questions," Snape said silkily, making shivers run up and down Harry's spine. "If you answer them truthfully, I might just let you live until morning. When you went down the hallway earlier, was the door open?"

"No," Harry found himself leaning towards Snape's ear to relieve the pressure on his ear, "but it wasn't locked."

"Did you hear what I said about doors that were closed?" Snape's voice grew even softer.

"Y-yes, but –"

"And Potter," Snape was speaking in a whisper now, "did you understand what I meant when I said not to enter rooms with the door closed?"

"Yes," Harry was turned red, his cheeks tinged pick with shame.

"So you pushed open the door and went inside, knowing full well you shouldn't be in there. Did you decide it would be fun to start playing potions, mixing things together to see what would happen?"

"No, I saw the cloak on the top shelf –" Harry stopped suddenly, realizing he had just given himself away.

A fierce light gleamed in Snape's eye. "So, you went looking for your cloak, did you? You decided to find it despite my warnings that you did not need it. It was on the top shelf. Did you try to climb up on the shelves to reach it?"

"Yes, but I put the cloak back up as soon as I saw it wasn't mine. Then the shelves started falling off the wall. I jumped and ran for the door, and then everything exploded."

"So not only did you disobey me again, you put yourself into danger simply because, once again, you knew better than I did. Are you starting to see a pattern here, Potter?"

Harry looked away. The sinking feeling in his stomach was plunging lower by the moment.

"Do you have any idea how long it took me to stock that store?" Snape continued, his fingers tightening and making Harry wince in pain. "Do you have any idea what it cost? Thankfully, I have another small store downstairs next to my potions lab, but I keep dozens of valuable vials and bottles up here. The ingredients to make the potion I gave you to keep from burning the other night – they came from the store upstairs."

"I'm sorry!" Harry cried out. He felt just awful, like he had an empty cavern in his stomach that could not be filled, and he was turning redder, and maybe Snape would kill him so he wouldn't have to keep feeling so bad. He ruined everything – any time someone tried to help him, Harry managed to ruin it.

Snape had no sympathy. "Believe me, Potter, you are about to serve the worst punishment you could possibly imagine. You knew what I had told you, but you went ahead and did what you wanted, ignoring my orders. That falls under willful disobedience. I did not tell you about the different kinds of disobedience simply to hear myself talk – I did it so you would think about your actions and the consequences they have, and not disobey me! But because you insist on behaving like a child, I will treat you like one. For the next two days, a full forty-eight hours, you don't leave my sight. Since you cannot be trusted to mind me when I am not there, I will stay with you and see that you behave. You will sit with me in the potions lab while I work, come into my study when I send letters, and sleep on the sofa in my room at night. At the end of two days, if I think you can be on your own again, you'll be allowed to return to your schedule under certain restrictions. If not, then you'll have to stay by my side until school starts."

Harry's mouth dropped open, but he could not articulate a single sound.

"In addition, you'll go to bed at eight o'clock for the next week and do chores around the manor to show me how sorry you are. If I hear any complaining or whining, I'll extend your punishment. Also, you'll accompany me to Diagon Alley to replace the items you destroyed. In short, you'll be the best, most helpful, most considerate boy you can be, or you'll be a very unhappy Potter."

Harry nodded, trying to look as contrite and miserable as possible. He did feel bad – it was stupid and thoughtless to blow up Snape's lab. Harry remembered how upset he had felt in the second year when someone had rifled through his dorm room in search of Riddle's Diary. It had been Ginny and she had been possessed, but Harry remembered how angry he had felt that someone would rip through his things, completely heedless of his feelings or concerns. It had not been a good feeling, and Snape probably felt even more frustrated because he needed the potions store to do his work, both as a teacher and as a spy.

"I am sorry, really," Harry insisted. "I promise I'll listen in the future, I really do."

"We'll see about that," Snape growled. "Oh, and one more thing." He pulled Harry over to the sofa and sat down before dragging Harry over his knees.

"Oh, no!" Harry protested, both in dread and in shame. He had forgotten that this was the same sofa on which Snape had first punished him. Why did he have to choose this room to hide in? If he had hidden anywhere else, Snape might not have remembered how much Harry hated having to be punished this way.

" _Accio_ ruler," Snape said, a certain vindictive pleasure in his voice.

Harry angrily crossed his arms, not an easy task to accomplish while hanging over someone's lap. It was one thing for Snape to punish him, but Harry knew that if he looked back the man would be sneering with delight, glad for an excuse to beat his ward again.

_That's not fair_ , a small voice inside Harry spoke up. _You blew up his potions store, and you're surprised that he's going to smack you a few times?_

Yes, but he's going to use a ruler instead of his hand, and he shouldn't look so satisfied when he gets to punish me. He's the only person besides Flich and Umbridge that enjoys hurting other people, savoring their punishments like the sadistic prat he is.

_You disobeyed him,_ the small voice argued. _You heard what he said, and you did the opposite. I warned you not to go in there, but you just had to. And if that had been your cloak on the shelf, he would have known it was gone and would have come looking for you. This isn't Hogwarts where you can blame stuff on other students – it's just the two of you._

Well, still, he doesn't have to look so pleased. He could look a little sorry that he's going to whale my rear again when I didn't mean any of it.

_Oh, shut up_ , the voice replied. _You destroyed part of his house. You deserve every bit of punishment he hands out. In fact, he should use a belt right now, not some flimsy ruler. So once he starts, you take your punishment like a man_.

All these thoughts passed through his head in a matter of seconds, but Harry barely had time to resign himself to his fate before Snape brought down the ruler with a crack.

Harry sucked in breath and knew his conscience was wrong on two points. First of all, the ruler was not flimsy at all. Harry could not see it, but it felt like a thick slab of wood slamming into his helpless bottom. And second, there was no way he would be able to take it like a man since the second and third whacks made his eyes smart painfully and he could barely keep himself from reaching back in attempts to shield himself.

"I had thought that you were really too old for this kind of punishment," Snape said in between hard smacks. "After all, you are about to turn sixteen, and this probably is more befitting to an eight- or nine-year-old. However, it seems to get through to you better than anything else."

Harry tried not to cry, he told himself he was too old to cry, and he was not going to reinforce Snape's opinion that this was an appropriate punishment. But Snape meant business, and by smack ten, Harry felt a few tears start to leak out. By the twentieth smack, he didn't care about his dignity or his pride, and he only cared about when Snape would stop paddling him.

"All right, all right," Harry wailed, twisting away from the ruler pitifully. "I swear I won't _ow!_ disobey you again. I swear, I swear I'll be good."

"Oh, promises, promises," Snape scoffed, not pausing for a second. "The moment you see an opportunity, off you go, forgetting every rule, only caring about doing what you want at the moment. But when you get caught, it's all tears and sad puppy looks. Now, stop squirming, and let me finish. I declare, the only time you behave is after I tan your hide good and hard. I should wallop you every morning, just to ensure that you mind me for the rest of the day."

"No!" Harry felt desperate. "No, don't do that! Please, I will behave, you've got to believe me." Tears were falling freely down his face, and he didn't even bother to wipe them away.

"I don't have to do anything of the kind," Snape retorted. "I'll stop once I think you've got the message, you disobedient, arrogant, horrible little brat."

Four wallops later, and something in Harry finally broke, crumbling his resolve to pieces, and he started crying in earnest. Even after Snape delivered one last stinging smack to the seat of Harry's trousers and then put the ruler aside, Harry did not attempt to move, but lay there in tears and remorse. He expected Snape to yank him and seat him down on the sofa for another lecture. Or worse, make him go put his nose in the corner and stand there for a long time to think about how he could improve his behavior. Or yell at him to get out of the room so Snape didn't have to see him any longer

But Snape did none of those things. He shook his head, commenting, "Really, Potter, you're more trouble than you're worth." But as he spoke he helped Harry stand on his feet, a firm hand on each arm so Harry would not fall.

In utter contrition, Harry stood there, tears still leaking out and feeling for all the world like a well-punished child. For some unknown reason, he wanted to be near someone, anyone, just not to be alone in his misery. He hated the feeling of loneliness, ever so strong since Sirius had died.

"All right, Potter, pull yourself together," Snape said, rather sternly, but as he spoke, he placed a warm hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly.

Later Harry would blush and look away when he thought about what he did next. It was really so immature, so babyish – if Ron ever found out, Harry could never look him in the eye again. But standing in the sitting room, Harry abandoned all logical thought and wrapped both his hands around Snape's wrist and laid his head down on the man's forearm. It felt so good just to be near someone, not to feel utterly alone and lost in the world.

Snape almost jerked back from the boy's hold, but then sighed heavily. "There, there," he said awkwardly, giving Harry a few pats on the back, "stop making such a fuss. And I'm still extremely upset with you. Come now, you're really too old to be crying like this."

Harry yanked away from Snape, the feeling of comfort gone. "First, you say I'm acting childishly and need to be punished like one, and now I'm too old? Make up your mind!"

Snape grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, turned him to the side, and gave Harry two sharp slaps on the rear. "Don't you take that tone with me, boy, or you'll find yourself back over my knee until you learn some respect. Now, we're going to see if we can salvage any of the potions store."

Resisting the urge to rub his smarting behind, Harry was pushed reluctantly back towards the site of disaster. His tears had stopped thankfully, but he felt embarrassed that he had carried on so, like some two-year-old tired and hungry, needing a nap and bursting into tears. If Snape ever told anyone about this – well, Harry wasn't sure what he could do, but he knew he would not be happy with Snape.

"I don't understand why you can't use magic to put it back," Harry ventured, careful to keep his voice very respectful. "Can't you just, you know, reverse everything and unbreak the glass and have the potions fly up on the shelves? I've seen Hermione fix my glasses when they get broken."

"It's not that simple," Snape growled, still pulling Harry along by the back of his neck. "I might could mend one bottle, provided the ingredients inside were not too shaken up. But once they get mixed with other ingredients, you can't undo the mixture. It becomes a chemical change, not a physical."

"But why can't –"

"No, you can't," Snape insisted. "It's not like melting ice into water and then refreezing it. It would be likely cooking meat and then trying to turn it raw again. Magic can't change all the laws of physics not matter how many annoying brats wish it were different. And add to it flammable chemicals that ignite when broken open and mixed –"

Harry felt the hand around the back of his neck tighten.

"Potter," Snape had returned to his deadly whisper, "you better pray I can find one salvageable item in that mess, or you're not going to sit down for a week."

The smell was terrible as they neared the door, and Harry tried not to gag. The potions store was in shambles: broken shelves all over the floor, glass laying in jagged shards, and nasty things coated in slime and brown goo oozing around the glass and wood, and stinking fumes lingering up in slow, thick clouds. Harry clasped a hand over his mouth, hoping he wouldn't throw up.

"Look at this, just look at it," Snape said crossly.

Harry was trying not to.

"You never do anything halfway, do you?" Snape stepped over the remnants of the door to better survey the mess. "Bat livers gone, dragonfly wings destroyed – you broke my one vial of unicorn horn dust! Do you have any idea how hard that was to come by? It's going to take half your parents' fortune to replace everything, so I hope you're happy."

Oh, that was a bummer. Harry slumped a little farther down in despair. The money his parents had worked for and saved and tucked away for the future, now spent to replenish the potions store of his father's rival. Maybe this was poetic justice . . . somehow.

"Nothing, nothing," Snape raised a ragged edge of the shelves and looked underneath. "Ruined, smashed, exploded – ah-ha! One bottle of pickled dragon's eggs, unharmed." He levitated the unbroken bottle outside the room into the hall.

Harry didn't know whether he should offer to help or stay where he was. Either way, Snape would probably yell at him. Harry frowned and got in a quick rub at his sore bottom while Snape was rifling through what looked like pigs' toes and minced dragons' hearts. Harry wanted to be mad, to stay angry, but the truth was, Snape had let him live for the time being. And Harry had learned to be grateful for small blessings.

"All right," Snape finally stood up and ran a hand back through his dark hair, "out of a store that used to hold 768 perfectly good supplies, I found four usable vials. That means that I have to find 764 new ingredients by September. And here I thought we might have a relaxing summer."

"I said I was sorry," Harry protested. "And I haven't complained about my punishments, any of them."

"Because if you did, I would use your tongue as one of the replacement supplies," Snape shot at him. "Well, stop standing there looking like a complete idiot. We're going downstairs to get protective gloves, and then you're going to clean it all up while I write letters for new supplies. Move!"

Snape was as good (or as bad depending on how you looked at it) as his word. For two hours while Harry cleaned up, Snape sat in a chair in the doorway and browsed through catalogues of potions supplies, marking the new supplies he needed. Harry tried to work quickly, thick leather gloves on his hands and a charmed cloth tied over his nose and mouth so he could breathe, but the job dragged on forever. Most infuriating of all was that Harry knew Snape could clean it all up with a wave of his wand if he wanted to. For that matter, Harry could clean up with a wave of his own wand if the overgrown bat would let him have it instead of doing this tedious manual cleaning for hours.

"You missed a spot," Snape pointed with his wand to the far corner without looking up.

Harry straightened, wiping his sweaty forehead on his arm and pulling the cloth down off his face. "The floor has been stained in a few places. What do I used to clean it up?"

"Your mouth," Snape still did not look up from the catalogue.

"Very funny," Harry retorted.

"Fine, I have a toothbrush you can use later to scrub the entire floor," Snape commented.

"It'll probably get more use here than on your teeth," Harry muttered under his breath.

Snape looked up from the catalogue. "What did you say?"

"Nothing, I'm cleaning," Harry hastily went back to work.

By the time the room was clean enough, all broken stuff in trash bins and the floor empty but needing a good scrubbing, they went to supper. Harry's shoulders ached from picking up all the broken shelves, and his back hurt from bending over for so long, and his rear end was unbelievable sore as he tried to sit without squirming or showing his discomfort. He could Snape trying not to smirk, which made Harry feel twice as contrary and out of sorts.

But worst of all was when Snape announced that it was time for bed. Harry grimly followed Snape upstairs and to the door of the master bedroom. Snape's bedroom was oddly usual and unremarkable – dark, handsome colors and rich mahogany with accents of black iron, a very masculine room. Snape handed Harry a pair of pajamas and pointed to the bathroom. A long, hot bath sounded like just the thing to help relieve his soreness.

Harry headed into the bathroom, but when he turned around, Snape was standing in the doorway, arms crossed with a resigned expression.

"Hey, I'm getting undressed here!" Harry objected.

"I said I'm not letting you out of my sight for two days," Snape replied calmly. "For all I know, you'll try to flood the bathroom to see if you can make an indoor pool."

"I'm not undressing with you watching," Harry stated, crossing his own arms.

"Oh, don't be a baby, Potter. You've taken showers with boys before, and I've been Head of Slytherin for years. It's not as if I've never seen a boy naked before, and just to rest your mind, I prefer something a little more feminine and older, a woman with charms not a half-grown brat with an attitude problem."

"I've never seen you interested in women," Harry said suspiciously, but he pulled his shirt off as he spoke.

"At Hogwarts? Where the only females are underage students and married or spinster teachers? You're right, Potter, how could you have possibly missed that I find women attractive when I'm surrounded by such eligible females?"

Harry was pulling off his socks and shoes, but he stopped for a moment. "What about Tonks? She not too young or too old, and you never looked interested in her."

"That's just what I need, a snippet of a witch with color-changing hair and a smart mouth. Take a bath and stop annoying me with questions."

Harry was in the sudsy, hot water, swishing a wash cloth over a bar of soap when he ventured to ask, "Are Death Eaters allowed to get married?"

Snape, who was now leaning against the doorpost in boredom, glanced over to his soapy ward. "I beg your pardon?"

"You know, can you get married after you become a Death Eater? I know Lucius Malfoy is one and Bellatrix Lestrange, and they're both married, but I thought they became Death Eaters after they were married. I mean, does he like his followers to love someone other than him?"

"I wouldn't know," Snape answered shortly. "No one has ever mentioned marriage at the meetings. And don't speak Bellatrix's name in this house."

Harry blinked. "You don't like Bellatrix? But I thought –"

"I said don't talk about her," Snape ordered, his voice hard. His dark eyes were glinting with fury, and Harry could see that Snape was clenching his hands into fists beneath his sleeves. "No more talking. Start scrubbing, and wash that dirty hair of yours."

This was an excellent opportunity to tell Snape that he should wash his own hair, but Harry only nodded mutely as he reached for the shampoo.

Thirty minutes later, Harry was lying on his new, makeshift bed: a large sofa with a soft pillow and sheets and blankets tucked around him. His body was tired from the hard day of work, but Harry's mind kept racing, refusing to let him rest. Why did Snape hate Bellatrix? She had killed one of the people Snape had hated the most. And was Snape really going to let him go to Diagon Alley to collect more potions? And was what with Snape liking women? Not that Harry thought the potions master should like men or anything like that – to be honest, he didn't like to think that Snape could be romantic at all. He tried to picture Snape wooing some woman in the dungeon, telling her she was beautiful as he mashed up beetles for a nasty potion.

"Whatever you're snickering at," Snape said from the desk across the room, "stop it, and go to sleep."

"It's too early to sleep," Harry complained, twisting on the sofa. And it felt weird to be lying on the sofa, trying to fall asleep while Snape worked at his desk. What felt even stranger was the fact Harry didn't find the whole situation to be that disconcerting. He had done something terrible and been thoroughly punished, but instead of lying there seething and hoping for revenge, Harry felt warm and safe inside. He should be mad, but that would take an awful lot of energy, and it was more fun to think about what would happen in the next few weeks than plot against Snape, which seemed to be getting him into more trouble lately.

"How are you feeling?" Snape asked, thumbing through a large book with one hand.

"Sore," Harry grumbled, trying to find a comfortable position on the sofa.

Snape got up and walked over to the large wardrobe and looked through it until he found a small corked bottle. He took out a big spoon and walked over to the sofa. "Here, swallow this," Snape poured out a good amount of thick, black goo into the spoon and held it out towards Harry.

"That's gross, and I'm not sick, just achy from cleaning," Harry said flatly. It was ridiculous to refuse because he knew Snape would make him take the potions eventually, but Harry was not going to do everything the man said just because Snape was in charge. The man was a total control-freak, feasting on power the way vampires feasted on blood. Once Harry gave into him, the potions master was likely to suck the life right out of his ward.

" _Immobulus_ ," Snape had pulled out his wand with his free hand, and Harry fell back on his pillow with a thud. Snape set the spoon on the table and reached for the bottle. "I think you need an extra-large dose of this delightful medicine to help curb your tongue."

Snape began pouring the gooey stuff into Harry's open mouth, and Harry's eyes bulged at the horrendous taste. Honestly, each potion seemed to taste worse than the last, designed just to torture him with its nasty taste. And now he was going to choke because he could not swallow while under the spell, nor could he tell Snape that though he doubted Snape would care whether or not his ward choked as long as he was quiet and still.

After pouring what seemed like half the bottle in Harry's mouth, Snape recorked the bottle and reached to push Harry's mouth closed. Some of the medicine drooled out of the corner of Harry's lips, but Snape wiped it away with a clean handkerchief. "All right, Potter, just swallow. Your natural reflexes still work. Swallow the potion and then you can go to sleep."

Harry tried, he really did, but he could not get the awful stuff down. Snape sighed (he was the huffer and puffer in the manor, always sighing over something, Harry furiously thought). However, Harry's eyes widened a little more as he felt cold fingers firmly stroke over his throat as Snape encouraged, "Come one, Potter, you can do it. Just swallow – there we go, good boy."

The nasty potion made its way down Harry's throat, leaving a disgusting aftertaste in its wake.

"Since you cannot obey me in little things," Snape was a little sterner now, "I'm extending your time within my sight to three days. Furthermore –" Snape broke off suddenly, and his face blanched with pain for second.

Fear shot through Harry, but he was powerless to move or even voice his concerns.

Snape's right hand flew to his left wrist, where under the long sleeve of the black robe Harry knew the Dark Mark was burned into his skin. Voldemort must be calling a meeting of the Death Eaters.

Snape straightened, calm and resolved once more. "I have to leave for a bit. Luckily, it's bedtime for you so I don't need to worry about your whereabouts. You close your eyes and go on to sleep, and I'll be back in a few hours."

Harry tried to speak, to yell, but all he could manage was a rumbling sound deep in his throat. He tried to talk with his eyes, but that had not worked last time, and he really didn't expect it to work now.

"Potter, I will be fine, much to your dismay I'm sure," Snape said dryly. He pulled the covers up over Harry's shoulders and dimmed the candlelight. "The Dark Lord has not been killing his followers lately – there are too few of us already, and he needs every single person still alive and loyal. Now, just relax and don't worry. I'll be back before morning, and if not, the house elves will tend to you.

Harry made the throaty noise again, praying that Snape would let him talk.

"Potter, there's nothing you can say that will keep me here, or as you would probably prefer, let you go with me. You're staying on that sofa because you're being punished. Good night."

Snape Apparated with a loud crack, leaving Harry all alone in the dim room. Harry stared up at the ceiling, blinking quickly. He refused to cry, he didn't care what Snape had done to him, but the prickling sensation in the corners of his eyes was stronger than his resolve for not crying.

It was just the reality of the whole thing that was getting to him. Sometimes Voldemort and the whole prophecy thing seemed like a far off dream, something to worry about later. But here at Snape's house, it was real. Snape was being summoned to a Death Eater's meeting, and knowing first-hand Voldemort's need for inflicting pain, there was a good chance that Snape might get tortured tonight. What if he were tortured to the breaking point and he revealed Harry's true location? What if Death Eaters stormed Snapdragon Manor that very night while Harry lay on the sofa, powerless to fight back? He could picture the frightening masked face gliding up to his bed, leaning over him with a cold smile underneath.

Harry shut his eyes tightly, trying to push the image away. Snape was stronger than that – he would not agree to let Harry stay at his home without ensuring Harry's safety. What if Snape couldn't reveal Harry's whereabouts so Voldemort tortured him until Snape lost his mind, like the Longbottoms? And then he would be shipped to St. Mungo's to spend the rest of his days in mindless idleness, humming to himself like Neville's parents. And Harry would be responsible for it, just like he was responsible for everything else. It wasn't bad enough that he had ruined Snape's house and his summer, now he was making sure Snape physically suffered at well.

Harry could feel the potion starting to work; already he felt less sore and more comfortable, and his body wanted to drift off into pleasant sleep. But he forced his eyes open. He was not sleeping until Snape came back, not until Snape was in the bedroom, alive and in one piece.

It was going to be a long night for the both of them.


End file.
